


Crystallise Another Life

by voiceofdragons



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Dimension Travel, Arthur POV, BAMF Merlin, Magic Reveal, Merthur endgame, Multi, Royal Merlin AU, Vague magic rules, adventure is out there, crossposted, druid magic, general bromance, set at the end of season 3, that dragon is always going to be cryptic af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:05:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceofdragons/pseuds/voiceofdragons
Summary: One wish for his mother's life and the whisperings of destiny could change Arthur's views on magic as he is transported to another version of his life.





	1. Prologue: Destiny Speaks

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so chapters 1-5 were written in 2013-2014. I went on a short hiatus...that lasted two years...and then another year after that... ...
> 
> So chapters 6 and on will be written recently. (I'm doing my best. Someone save me.)
> 
> Enjoy!

-x-

Sun beams shone in patches through the canopy of tree leaves, gracing the morning dew adorning the grass below with beams of light. The horse he was riding maintained a rhythmic pace; he focused more on that, and the rich greens and browns of the forest, than what the man clad in royal reds riding in front of him was saying. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back whilst a gust of wind caressed his hair and clothes. He let his eyes flutter open to reveal deep cerulean eyes, studying a flock of birds flying through the dawn sky and the sun painting the colours of a new day. Fallen twigs and leaves crunched beneath him as he trotted along listening to bird song; it was a pleasant enough day, except—

" _Mer_ lin, do you ever _listen?"_ Arthur's voice erupted beside him making him jump out of his reverie, and he couldn't help shooting a cheeky smile at Arthur's back, even though the older man couldn't see it as Merlin was trailing behind the royal prince. Arthur was in a remarkably good mood—they were doing a hobby of the prince's, of course, but he, himself, didn't want to partake in this, ah, ' _hobby._ '

"Sorry, Sir _Prat,_ I couldn't find it in me to listen to your pratty self prattling on," Merlin weakly bantered, as the servant—oddly—wasn't in the mood to talk, only to listen. Humourously enough— _listen_ , not to the Prince Regent, but to the birdsong and the buzzing bees, the water rushing in the streams and the wind whistling through the trees.

The sun was shining, the breeze was wonderful, the sky was now coloured in vibrant blues as the sun had risen during the long trot to the borders of Camelot and Essetir. A beautiful day—apart from when Arthur's 'game' ran fearfully away from him as Merlin always seemed to make far too much noise, alerting the animals—they were _hunting_. Merlin hid a scowl; he _hated_ hunting. The lanky servant knew that this border patrol had been an easy excuse for the prince to take out his frustrations on tiny woodland animals.

The prince had been more and more stressed, what with his father's health declining. The King had never been known to stay in bed with a simple sickness before; Arthur wasn't _that_ oblivious, he had seen through Gaius' attempts to downplay how serious the King's sickness was. Merlin smiled despite the gravity of the kingdom's situation and wiggled his fingers, feeling the magic flow through them—correction, Arthur was _quite_ oblivious.

Merlin ignored Arthur's loud, exasperated sigh in favour of absent-mindedly running his fingers through his horse's coarse mane. Arthur spoke again, with an irritated tone, "I had said, stop the horses here, _Mer_ lin, we continue on foot. Get my crossbow—" Merlin ran a hand over his face as the royal prat continued his spiel, "—and my bow and arrow, the game bag, skinning knives…" he droned on, listing more things Merlin would have to take off the horse's saddle bag and pile onto his back.

"Yes, your _majesty."_ Merlin sneered at Arthur, cutting him off whilst hopping off of his horse quickly, albeit not gracefully.

"Oi, you're in a right tizzy. Why is that?" Arthur questioned, his brow raised at the unusually bitter manservant. Merlin sighed irritably, considering whether he should just ignore the question and grab Arthur's hunting equipment or answer him. Azure eyes flickered to expectant pale blue ones, " _Well?"_ Merlin almost chuckled at Arthur's tone. The blonde had never been one for sharing feelings, but had always been one for getting what he wanted: in this case, it had to do with Merlin—and, apparently, sharing feelings.

Merlin shrugged, and opted to continue packing the sack full of hunting supplies as he began to speak. "You know," he paused, shoving the crossbow into the bag with out any sense of care for the weapon—at which Arthur winced. "You're not the only one I run around for, yeah? I'm Gaius' ward, and he _does_ expect me to work for him to make up for living with him, even if I _am_ his nephew."

Arthur masked his surprise at Merlin's statement. _Gaius was his uncle? I had known that Gaius was like a father figure to Merlin, but I had never thought… interesting. I suppose it would be obvious to have moved into a new city with a family member rather than a stranger with out any blood ties at all._ Arthur then noticed Merlin had stopped speaking again; as most of the arrows had fallen out of the quiver, and the lanky manservant was awkwardly cradling the quiver, trying to not let the remaining arrows spill out as well whilst stooping down to collect the separate projectiles upon the forest floor.

Arthur almost laughed at his manservant's normal clumsiness, but Merlin deliberately interrupted his urge, " _And,_ I was out most of the night picking moonglow and greenwarish, the _first_ of which can only be harvested in the moonlight, else it won't have the correct healing properties, as it is, as Gaius constantly reminds me, 'imperative that you get the herbs at the correct—'"

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur cut the gangly boy's babbling rant in half, "If you're going to shirk your work because you didn't get a little sleep, then maybe you should stop complaining altogether. Stop acting like such a _girl_ , Merlin," Arthur taunted, giving a wolfish smile towards his manservant.

" _You're_ the one who asked, I didn't realise you would feel the sudden need to regress into pratification," Merlin mumbled, having successfully placed all the arrows into the quiver and quiver onto his back along with the various other hunting supplies Arthur had asked him to bring. Arthur indignantly mouthed the last few words Merlin had uttered, all the while wondering what that meant and what had gotten his manservant in a bitter mood.

Merlin continued mumbling things under his breath—about stupid and oblivious royal dollop heads and how he really didn't get any sleep at all. Arthur pointedly ignored this, stalking ahead of his manservant, willing the skinny man to _shut up_ before he alerted the fine stag he was currently targeting.

_To tell you the truth would be to tell you I saved your ungrateful arse,_ yet again _, from some farfetched magical attempt at your life from Morgause. And as we speak, Morgause is more or less pounding into Morgana's seemingly innocent head different and creative ways to strip Uther of his life or crown—or possibly both. That_ and _gathering Gaius' damned special moonglow herbs that can only be harvested at moon light and at the sand bed of a lake just outside the city of Camelot—you're lucky I got you up in time, you clotpole._

Merlin's thoughts furiously circled in his head as he absentmindedly passed a bow and an arrow to Arthur when the blonde signalled quietly for the weapon. He watched Arthur gracefully ready the bow, drawing the nock back on the string, and he turned away the moment gloved fingers let go of the fletching of the arrow. Merlin winced when he heard the sickening sound of the arrow head embedding itself into the flesh of the stag. Arthur stood up, and handed Merlin the murder weapon and made to go over to the corpse.

Suddenly there was a flash of dark green robes darting through the corner of his vision. Merlin's eyes whipped in that direction, tracking for any further movement.

Familiar magic enveloped his senses.

Merlin's head snapped back to Arthur, who hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. The blonde was crouched down next to the stag, holding his hand out toward Merlin asking for his hunting knives and game bag. Merlin grumbled and shook himself out of his stupor, looking anywhere but the lifeless stag on the ground, its limbs in broken directions that really shouldn't be possible with its joints that would probably be painful were it alive, and glassy eyes so full of pain and fear. Merlin shoved the sheathed hunting knives into the bag, and clumsily threw it at Arthur, the bag landing just short of the blonde's outstretched hand. Arthur gave a scowl before snatching the bag and dragging it towards himself.

Merlin looked to the long-since dry river bank that marked the boundary between Essetir and Camelot to distract himself from Arthur making quick work of carving the game. The warlock-in-hiding smiled, if he continued this way past the border for a few miles he would run straight into the quaint town of Ealdor, his hometown. He wondered how his mother was faring without him, but the wonder was stopped short as a flash of dark green robes danced across the corner of his vision once more.

He looked back to Arthur to find the game already in the bag—most likely cut as clean as he could in the short amount of time that Merlin had had his back turned, and was standing curiously, staring past the game at his feet to something in the distance. Upon examining the scene in front of him further, he found that Arthur was staring at an opening to a cave.

Just within the border of Essetir, off to the side of the dried out river bed, lay a rise of rocks like a miniature cliff side—maybe only four or five feet fall—and around that, past a stretch of many green plants in a clearing, was the mouth of the cave. It wasn't obvious, nor was it hard to miss—it was simply _there_. As were the many trees, none really more noticeable than any other, not in a forest full of trees that simply _were_. If you weren't looking for the man-sized gap in the rise, it could easily be missed. What really caught Merlin's eye, though, was the soft magic coursing from the worn-out runes that had been carved just above the mouth of the cave—also easily overlooked if one were unobservant. The magic that was being emitted from the runes was weak, as if it had been placed there many years before, but Merlin could easily tell by the magic it gave off that it had been placed there by the druids.

There was another flash of the dark green hue.

Merlin jolted forwards, feeling the magic presence behind him that had been keeping only to the edges of his senses before. Turning his torso and head, he saw a hooded figure clad in dark green druidic robes. Wrinkled hands that had seen their fair share of years poked out of the large sleeves of the robes, carefully pushing back the hood that so recently covered the man's face. Merlin was met with the soft face and light green eyes that gave the hooded figure's identity away as Iseldir.

The druid chieftain smiled. "Emrys," he greeted gravely, though warmth was evident in his tone. Merlin turned to look at Arthur, but the prince was gone, the full bag of game in the prince's place. Merlin cursed softly, having almost had a panic attack before he caught the telltale Camelot colours over the Essetirian border and halfway towards the cave, oblivious to what was going on behind him.

Turning fully around towards Iseldir, Merlin gave a polite bow in acknowledgement before saying, "I should really follow him, lest he gets in trouble. I mean, he really shouldn't have crossed the border in the first place—such could be seen as an act of war towards Essetir, and who knows what kind of magic that cave holds... I should—"

" _Emrys,"_ Iseldir admonished. Merlin gave a sheepish smile to the wise druid, and nodded to him in acknowledgement, silently urging him to continue. "The cave is necessary. My ancestors placed it there for the very reason of pushing destiny forward, and I am bearing their initiative and vision forward. Without this, everything you have done will be for nought, as Arthur's vision will remain clouded by his father's hate for magic—even if he does feel guilt and remorse for the druids his father has ordered him to siege without mercy. You may return to Camelot, to your mentor; Arthur will not be back out for a while," Iseldir spoke, voice deep, raspy, and full of untold wisdom.

Merlin messed with the hem of his jacket sleeve, thoughts racing. "What if someone were to ambush him in the cave—like a mercenary or, God forbid, a group of bandits? They are everywhere! I can't just leave him here; I should really stay here and watch him..." The warlock finished his rant, looking upon Iseldir as he neared the end, speaking with enthusiasm and much emotion.

"Do not fret, Emrys, for that cave is protected by powerful magic," Iseldir said. Merlin gave a disbelieving look, not being able to pick up powerful magic around his person. The druid elder continued with a knowing tone, "Even if it doesn't _feel_ powerful. Only non-magical folk can enter, and even then they can only enter if they are pure of heart and intention."

Merlin looked pointedly at the cave, disbelieving, "A counter spell," he said simply.

"There is not a counter spell, as you would have to know the first spell in order to say the second." Iseldir said, simply.

_Not necessarily,_ Merlin thought bitterly. _I don't feel comfortable leaving Arthur unprotected._

"The cave is used for ancient druid practices, and the type of protection spell is so old the counter spell has been lost, as druids teach magic to their youth through oral tradition. We do not write things down; so much knowledge in written words is too powerful. Also, the spell was not made to defend against an offensive attack; any magical or non-magical attack would be useless. Arthur will not be unprotected."

Merlin's head snapped back to Iseldir's profile as he spoke the last few lines. Merlin scowled, and looked to the ground beneath his feet, seemingly in embarrassment.

「 _You were reading my thoughts._ 」

「 _You speak loudly, Emrys. Learn to be able to control your mind. Druids rather close to us would be able to hear your thoughts being broadcast._ 」Merlin glanced back up at Iseldir's now amused smile. He felt smaller than the druid chieftain; the man had so much knowledge, so much wisdom.

"Again, do not fret, Emrys. Though you were born with magic, not everyone was born with the knowledge of how to control it. You have power, Emrys... you _are_ power. Knowledge and wisdom are two different things—where as knowledge is plentiful, wisdom is very scarce. You do well to be worried about your other half." Iseldir smiled at Merlin once more, and as he finished speaking, all was silent.

_I have a feeling something is going to happen,_ Merlin thought. _It is never so quiet, and nothing can be so calm. It is almost as if the forest itself is holding its breath in anticipation._

「 _You are correct, Emrys. Destiny is speaking._ 」Iseldir's reply was cut from Merlin's attention, as a powerful surge of magic shook Merlin out of his maelstrom of thoughts. Merlin's head wiped back to the cave, which was engulfed in white light, he heard whispers of a woman's voice before all he could see was white, blinding, powerful magic.

「 _Destiny is speaking._ 」

* * *


	2. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thick plottens   
> wait  
> scratch that, reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we're switching to Arthur's POV

Arthur mentally rolled his eyes as he noticed Merlin acting rather queasy around the dead stag. This was common—his manservant always had a knack for acting like a girl—but the sudden movement of green out of the corner of his eye was rather odd. He initially filed this under the regular sights of the forest, because the forest _was_ , in fact, quite green. However, when he then felt a sudden, inexplicable pull towards the border of Essetir, he got to his feet and looked toward said border with conviction. Just there, in a clearing, was man-sized hole that lead into a cave. After only a moment's hesitation, he left the bag of stag parts by his feet and headed towards the cave without looking back.

When he arrived at the mouth of the cave, he unsheathed his sword. Making it to the cave had been an easy feat, but what would lie inside might not be. The opening was large enough for him to fit through, and there seemed to be only one path. There was a curious pale blue light—the only source of light in the cave—at the end of the tunnel he found himself travelling, which seemed to be origin of the pull. He let his hand trail along the rocky walls as he blindly made his way past the uneven terrain of the cave towards the centre.

The cave opened up into a perfectly circular room. Arthur could now see that the ethereal light came from the crystalline stone that was placed in the centre of the cave. He studied the smooth stone closer. The blonde pulled off his hunting gloves and hastily shoved them in his pocket after sheathing his sword.

There were words—symbols really—that marked the stone all the way around, highlighted in a teal blue that was the glowing of the large crystal itself. _Magic,_ thought Arthur, _the Old Religion, it must be._ Against his better judgment, he felt an urge to run his bare fingers across the symbols, and so he did. A woman's voice spoke to him, void of body, beautiful in tone and ethereal:

「 _I am cause of no man's ire,_

_I shall give you your heart's desire._

_A wish will be fulfilled._ 」

As her voice ingrained itself into his memory, he realised: he had one wish. He didn't know what compelled him to think so seriously on this. It was magic! It was certainly a hoax—a cruel trick.

He couldn't have his heart's desire.

Even so, ' _a wish will be fulfilled_.' He couldn't explain his conviction, deep in his heart, that this was real. Should he choose to believe this fantasy, it wouldn't hurt to hope... to wish.

_One wish._

He was allowed any one wish— _what ever his heart desired_. He no longer questioned how this was possible. His eyes fluttered closed as his fingers brushed against the smooth, cool surface of the neatly carved crystalline stone once more, as his thoughts swam.

_Mother_ , his eyes snapped open as a bright flash of light met his pale irises and a sensation washed over him of winged creatures being launched from fiery catapults in his stomach.

Words formed in his mind before he had even realised what he wanted.

_I wish my mother hadn't died in child birth._

He felt tendrils of unconsciousness pulling at him until he drifted off into a world of blissful oblivion as the white torrent of magic engulfed him.

「 _And so it shall be done._ 」

-x-

When his pale blue eyes met with the same darkness whether open or closed, Arthur wondered where he was. He sat up easily, reached out in front of him, and brushed against smooth crystal and engravings with fingers calloused from years of training with the knights. No longer was the stone glowing with ethereal light as it had before; there was nothing but darkness at the shallow heart of this cave.

_What was all that? Was just I hallucinating?_ Carefully getting to his feet, he let the wall brace him in case he did something incredibly Merlin-like and tripped—which was quite impossible for him, mind you.

He walked carefully over the uneven terrain once more, a hand still casually resting on the side of the walls—not that he would lose his footing—to the exit of the cave. The sunlight outside shone with tell-tale signs of imminent sunset. Once out of the cave, he looked around himself, wary of an ambush. Those always seemed to happen around the border of Essetir—anywhere in the forests of Camelot, really.

Speaking of the other Kingdom, he crossed into the boundaries to get to the cave, hadn't he? That could mean trouble. He didn't want to be the cause of any tension, as the Peace Treaty between Camelot and Essetir was worn thin already, thanks to all the invasions that were waged against his country under Cenred's rule. His father hadn't really bothered getting acquainted with the new king—Lot was his name, he was fairly certain—afterwards, making it difficult for Arthur to tell what kind of man he was.

_Hopefully a forgiving one,_ Arthur thought, seeing a man patrolling the border of Camelot and Essetir nearby. He thought of ducking out of the way, but of course the other man would have already seen him. Arthur's attire stuck out like a bloody rose in a forest of uniform green.

As Arthur studied the man, he recognised him almost immediately. _Is that... Lancelot? He has given up wanting to be a knight of Camelot to be,_ Arthur almost snorted, _in Essetir's service? He would be so much better training alongside me, in Camelot. If only father would allow such a thing._

In front of him did stand Lancelot, clad in royal blue knight's gear which vaguely resembled what King Cenred's knights should have worn—were they not all mercenaries, or worse, undead. Arthur idly wondered of the knights of Essetir were still as full of shite as they were before. As he further noted the detail of Lancelot's attire, he thought, _No, they must be serious now. Certainly King Lot is a different man than Cenred; else he wouldn't bother with a uniform as such._ Where a crude symbol of a snake once rested, an appropriately intricate crest of a white dragon now proudly displayed. Its tail looped and curved in what were either Celtic knots or Druid symbols; possibly both. This confused him further.

"Oi, you there," the man began, trotting closer to the blonde prince, looking as young as he was when Arthur had first laid eyes on him in the training grounds a few years back.

This was odd. Arthur knew it had been at least a good year since he had seen the other—he _must_ have aged since then. Arthur to ran a hand up over his face and into his hair; he didn't notice it before, but there was a difference up there too. Before he could check again, Lancelot was beside him. The blonde noticed he was shorter than Lancelot, more than he remembered. Arthur was sure he had gotten taller in his years of puberty.

The taller man brushed his fringe out of his eyes before continuing with his earlier statement, "What are you doing near these parts? You shouldn't be—oh." Lancelot paused a moment to observe the other young man's regal posture and crimson raiment emblazoned with a gold dragon crest. "You must be Prince Arthur!" Lancelot smiled and executed a respectful bow. Arthur hid his surprise that Lancelot showed no recognition whatsoever towards him behind a pompous snort. "The Lady Morgana had told me you like to wonder off without the knights. Said she, you feel like a hound on a leash, yeah?"

Arthur let his eyes wander to Lancelot's face, before answering, "She said that, did she?" Arthur almost winced at how boyish he sounded. That, most definitely, was _not_ a voice of a man well through puberty. No, it was the voice of a boy—young man at best. Maybe he hadn't hallucinated after all in that cave. Wait... why would he be younger? Arthur carefully masked his discomfiture at his reverted voice, clearing his throat and addressing the knight with his trademark I'm-a-Royal tone, "You oughtn't to listen to her; she doesn't know a thing of what I feel."

The Lady Morgana—could it be that she was... back to her old self now? His Lady Morgana, the sweet, empathic, do-what's-right-and-damn-the-consequences, sisterly—in heart and in reality!—girl whom he had missed... was back? He mentally frowned. In the last few months, she had grown cold and distant towards him, always feeding him father forced smiles. He let a smile touch his lips at the thought of his sister being back to the way he had known her, but the taller must had mistaken it for a smirk, as Lancelot did nothing to hide a snort.

"She was also careful to warn me, when I did meet you, to be wary of ' _The most arrogant two-arsed nobleman you'll ever meet._ ' Ah, her words, not mine."

At this, Arthur raised a noble brow, drawling, "Right then." Yes, this was definitely the old Morgana. He had nearly forgotten the cheeky, teasing, beloved and utterly annoying side of her.

Lancelot cleared his throat awkwardly and let his chocolate eyes wander to the cave that Arthur had so recently exited. "As I was saying, you shouldn't be here; this cave is held sacred to Druid practices." Lancelot scanned the skies as he continued speaking. "There were also tales of a rampant griffin near the border to Camelot. I would advise caution when travelling this area for the time being."

The griffin—wasn't that the reason he and Lancelot had met in the first place? Lancelot had been tracking a griffin, and Merlin was almost eaten by the—heaven help him, _where was Merlin?!_

He furtively but frantically cast his eyes around the forest, looking for any sign of Merlin; usually the gangly manservant-turned-friend was within arms reach of him. Ever since he had set foot in the cave, he had forgotten everything else, all his focus on the curiosity pulling him to the centre of the cave full of ethereal lights. Forgetting Merlin— _how_ could he forget _Merlin_? The idiot couldn't keep himself upright on a normal day, much less a day where he had left him bare in the bandit infested woods, alone! Where was he, here? Where was _here_ exactly, anyway?

"—sire?" Arthur jolted out of his reverie when Lancelot's querying tone finally reached him.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, shall we go, sire?"

Arthur's gaze fell upon Lancelot once more, and waited. His pride would not allow him to do anything which may cause him to appear foolish, such as asking, _'Go where_?'

Lancelot wisely ignored the prince's confusion and spoke with deference, "I had suggested that we should travel to the closest Druid encampment for the night, and set out for the castle walls by morning. You know how your father and my King are; thick as thieves, I say. I would also like to question the druid chieftain about the whereabouts of the griffin before we make it to the feast."

Arthur refused to let confusion show on his face and simply gave an affirmative grunt.

"It's close by, not a long walk at all. Come, let us go," Lancelot looked to Arthur and nodded once, before setting off. Arthur followed closely behind.

_We were willingly seeking out the Druids for shelter for the night? But seeking out the druids as well as my father and the king of Essetir being as—as thick as thieves? This is more than odd, this has to be insane! Feasts were common courtesy for one royal family visiting another, but for what reason would Uther_ ever _want to visit Lot? It must be a different ruler here._ Arthur knew the ban on magic didn't have such a strong hold on Essetir as it did Camelot, thanks to Cenred, but he didn't think magic would be accepted easily so close to the border of his homeland. Was there a ban on magic at all?

_I wish my mother hadn't died in child birth._

_And so it shall be done._

That _had_ happened. The pain of his mother's death had caused Uther to instate the ban on magic. The High Priestess Nimueh had traded his mother's life in order to give birth to an heir: to him. _A life for a life_ , she had said.

After meeting Morgause and discovering the truth about his birth, he had spent some time digging in Camelot's vaults, curious about the members of the court before The Purge. He discovered that Nimueh, along with many others of varying magical natures, had been _part_ of the court's advisers. She had even been a close friend of his mother's, from what he had overheard from Gaius from the elder's tales of his younger years. At that time, Gaius was still court physician—using herbs _and_ magic—and adviser regarding magical creatures, but he was considered something of Camelot's second court sorcerer… the first being Nimueh herself.

Uther was no fool, he was warned that a life would be taken—but he didn't want to believe it would be his lovely wife. He let his despair blind him to the truth. He blamed Nimueh and he blamed magic itself.

Morgause had told the truth about his birth. Arthur had realised this after... he had nearly killed his father because of it. The sympathetic looks that Gaius sent his way, and the way Merlin hid his emotions from him a week or so thereafter didn't help his suspicions.

If not my mother, then… who— _who?!_ —died for me in this time? Had anyone died for my birth at all? _I feel as if I am off my trolley, I_ must _be dreaming. There is no way this is real—magic caused it. There isn't any plausible way my mother could be alive simply because I wished it so. The only explanation is, I blacked out after the crystal in the cave spoke—no, it didn't speak, I was merely hallucinating—and Lancelot, after being banned from Camelot, was knighted in Essetir. It was far too obvious that Essetir had no regard for who fought their battles. Cenred's army was, in fact, made of nothing but mercenaries—soldiers who fought for gold and not glory or honour. A man without noble blood wouldn't faze them at all._

"Up ahead, sire," Lancelot's voice sounded from in front of him.

Arthur grimaced with distaste. _I'm not going to get used to him being so formal with me. Has he truly not met me yet—or, uh, here—in this dream?_

The two men approached the edge of the forest, which opened onto a large clearing. They now walked upon a well-worn dirt path, no paved roads to disturb the natural flow. Looking further into the clearing, Arthur spied an enormous structure. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before; he must have been too deep in thought. A fort, of sorts, took up the area formerly occupied where he knew a sprawling, colourful array of tents would have been. Logs from different sorts of trees, their tops sharpened to points, jutted vertically from the soft ground of the clearing, packed side by side. As he got closer, he noticed more runes on the gate of the encampment, not unlike the ones he had seen in the cave.

Arthur asked, "What are those then; some kind of weird curses?" His tone was slightly mocking and he was obviously teasing the other knight, but he wouldn't put it past magic users to have put runes on an encampment for the sole purpose of cursing all who entered.

Lancelot smiled, and tapped his fingers over the runes. "Protection charms," the knight corrected, giving a cheeky smile over his shoulder. "I know some kingdoms aren't as magic savvy as we are, but I'd at least expect you to know a simple protection charm when you see one, _sire_." Backing up a few paces, Lancelot waved at the top of the gate. There must have been someone there because the gate quickly rose, creating a gap big enough for them to enter.

It was then Arthur realised that the only way the gate would have been drawn up so quickly was because of magic. Passing under the gate he noticed that the logs were sharply pointed on both sides—which only added to his nervousness—not that Arthur Pendragon was ever nervous, mind you. Maybe the Druids weren't as peaceful in this time—this dream state he was in. That would be unsettling, as this _unreal_ place was becoming far too surreal for his liking.

_Magic_ is unsettling. Dangerous. _Evil. It has to be, there isn't another explanation for this—this cruel joke it's trying to pull. My mother died because of magic—because of me. It was all because my father was a selfish bastard—only wanted an heir, didn't care who lost their life unless it took away from him. But it was still_ magic _that caused the whole ordeal._

Once they entered, his thoughts and view were both blocked by a muscular torso: the man was clad in a sleeveless version of the uniform Lancelot wore. The man's muscles looked like they had been sculpted from granite.

Lancelot cheerfully greeted the torso, "Percival, how have you been?" Arthur's gaze snapped to the sleeveless man's face. _It IS Percival!_ He hid a chuckle, glancing at the modification to the uniform, musing, _I should have known._

Arthur had met Percival briefly when they were on the secret—by _secret_ he meant only his father didn't know about it—quest to save Guinevere from her captives, who mistook her for the Lady Morgana. Arthur smiled at the thought and glanced over at Lancelot, remembering how he and Guinevere had gotten on. He wondered if the two had met in this odd place, and if they were attracted to each other here, too. Arthur hid a soft chuckle and looked expectantly at Lancelot, wondering if he was going to introduce him to the sleeveless knight.

"Ah, yes, forgive my manners, sire. This is Percival—he's stationed at the Druid camp for their protection." Lancelot flashed a smile to the prince, "Not that they need it, but the king wouldn't hear of any sort of refusal. Come to think of it—the only reason that Iseldir was open to the idea of having a knight as a guard staying with them was because Percival's family has close ties to the Druids and their customs." Turning to the muscle man, Lancelot added, "Isn't that so?"

Percival gave a nod in affirmation and threw a coy smile in Lancelot's direction before appraising Arthur. Seeming to have found nothing hostile in Arthur's stance, Percival gave an approving nod before stepping out of the young prince's way.

Arthur got his first full view of the camp. Children ran around a bonfire of reds and oranges, and here were the many colourful tents he recalled, scattered around the encampment grounds. The atmosphere seemed to tingle with energy and peace—smiles and laughter rang out from the children at play. To his left lay a well, where a blonde woman was fetching water while simultaneously fussing over a young boy in a teal cloak. He felt a sense of familiarity wash over him while looking at the Druid boy—had he met the boy before? He knew it wasn't from one of the raids his father had ordered. He felt a sense of pride when he looked at the boy, though he couldn't recall why. He wouldn't have felt this pride triggered by a young boy he had been told to kill, _surely_. He couldn't resolve his blank memory for the life of him; it would most likely bother him for the rest of his stay here.

Lancelot walked ahead, after giving Percival a one armed hug. The dark haired knight turned, noticing that Arthur had stopped following him when they had reached just inside the entrance of the encampment, as the blonde prince was immersed in taking in his surroundings. Lancelot cleared his throat loudly, gaining Arthur's attention with eyebrows raised in question.

"Let us speak with Iseldir about sleeping arrangements," Lancelot said, beckoning Arthur to follow him.

Arthur fell into pace behind Lancelot and asked, "Who is Iseldir?" Instead of answering the question, Lancelot stopped walking as he made it to a large forest green tent that was in the centre of the encampment, and gestured towards the opening. Arthur frowned, as his question was not answered, but he pushed through the tent flaps anyway with Lancelot in tow.

"Young Pendragon," a voice greeted him. Arthur looked around in the tent. There was little clutter, and every thing was in its place. There was a bookshelf to one side that held many books and trinkets that he presumed were of a magical nature. To one side of the tent lay a small table in one corner with a neat triskelion carved in the centre, a sleeping mat near the back edge of the tent, and what looked to be an alchemist's table in the other corner. The floor was adorned with expertly woven rugs.

He then noticed a man clad in an oddly _familiar_ pair of dark green robes holding a mortar and pestle and was leaning over the alchemist's table. There were potions and concoctions bubbling happily upon the table and candlelight swayed curiously from the centre of the poles that were stabilizing the tent.

"I am Iseldir, Druid Chieftain." Iseldir gave a knowing smile as Arthur's pale blue eyes met his soft green hue. Iseldir then turned to Lancelot. "You are to ask if you can stay the night, Ser Lancelot, and the answer is always yes, as I have told you before. A friend to Emrys is always welcome here." Iseldir set down the mortar and pestle. "You are heading to the castle in the morning." Arthur thought it was also curious for a question to be said like a statement as Lancelot gave a nod. " _Do_ have the message passed along to Gaius that I greatly appreciate our mutually beneficial exchange of herbs common to each of our lands. I pray he is well," Iseldir told Lancelot, and proceeded to walk out of the tent.

The dark haired knight followed Iseldir, and Arthur figured that was enough invitation to do the same. "There is a well close to the entrance and our training grounds are in a separate section. There are many gates leading into the forest and the rest of the town, but there are mostly tents for the druid community here," Iseldir explained, for Arthur's benefit. The druid chieftain turned to Lancelot, "Please tell Emrys we expect to be visited by him in the near future."

"Of course," Lancelot gave a genuine smile at the mentioned name. Arthur, however, felt lost. _Who is Emrys, then? He seems quite the topic of conversation here. Would he be another druid leader?_

"Emrys?" Arthur asked, intrigued on the weight of the name when the druid chieftain spoke of it.

_Emrys-s-s..._ A waterfall of whispers rushed by from the Druids as Arthur asked this question. He wasn't sure if the echo and sprinkling of whispers were all in his head or not.

「 _Emrys…_ 」The name was repeated many more times, as if chanting an important mantra or prayer.

"To the non-magical people of the Kingdom, he is known as the Prince of The Land. To us, he is known as the Lord Emrys," Iseldir explained. The name echoed around the encampment once more, the whispers bouncing off of the few trees in sight. Looking around, Arthur realized that their trio had drawn a small crowd.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, once more, but a druid girl ran out from the crowd and stumbled into him. She murmured a quick apology towards the blonde prince, but her attention was far from him. She gave an awed smile to her tribe leader and Lancelot. "Mum has told me stories," she began excitedly, "about Emrys." As if on cue, the name was whispered around once more, like a word of power. If by the Druids, Arthur couldn't tell. The swirling soft voices seemed to be coming from the forest itself.

Arthur allowed his gaze roam over the girl. She seemed to be entering early adolescence, with dark wisps of brown hair framing her face and deep brown, doe-like eyes. The young lass had an almost innocent air about her; he knew she must be a very likeable girl by the fond looks she gained from Lancelot, and Percival—who had quietly come to stand beside the dark haired knight.

"Do you want to hear them, Ser?" At this, Arthur realised that the girl was directing her attention towards him, and not Lancelot who stood beside him. Arthur was taken slightly aback, these _stories_ were likely magical—being told by a druid—he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear them.

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: "I thought it might be best to clear some things up: I have this fic set towards the end of season three.
> 
> And, of course, I changed a few things, as Arthur didn't meet Percival so soon, and Lancelot gave Gwen up for Arthur and all of that jazz, as well as Morgana not being fully evil, just mislead. (:
> 
> Prepare for a long one next chapter!"


	3. Remembering and Making Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back story ahoooy  
> casually normalising magic around Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcannon Freya as being Percival's sister
> 
> If some of the dialouge looks familiar during the italisised flashbacks it's because I pulled them from the transcript of the show

Lancelot nodded encouragingly at Arthur, noticing the boy wasn't looking keen to listen to some little girl's story. The knight figured that Arthur, being a _prince_ , was supposedly too good to listen to what the druid girl had to say. "Freya has a knack for telling stories, your highness. The oral tradition is very important to our people, so storytellers are very highly regarded. Freya has no small experience and greatly enjoys sharing tales of our history with new listeners. You really should indulge yourself and listen to one," the dark-haired knight told the blonde haired prince.

_Your highness_. It really was going to take a while for Arthur to get used to being treated so formally by someone who was—could be—one of his best knights; one of Essetir's knights, now. Lancelot smiled at the young druidess as her eyes widened and excitement blossomed in her posture as she watched Arthur's face with hope clearly etched on her features.

"Your highness?" the druid girl, Freya, repeated the proper title Lancelot had used to address Arthur. She looked towards Arthur with eager eyes, questioning, "Are you a prince?" Arthur nodded slowly. "Oh! You must be the Prince of Camelot! Iseldir told us you were going to make an appearance soon," Freya finished with a happy smile, proud that she had remembered such an important detail.

Arthur let his head fall slightly to one side in question, though he said nothing. _Did Iseldir foresee this with magic, or did he simply receive word from the castle that I was to be visiting?_

Freya furrowed her brow thoughtfully, murmuring to herself, "Though he did tell us a couple of months ahead of time." Arthur almost didn't catch the words that she uttered.

_Seer. He is_ definitely _a seer._

"Shall we hear a few stories before we rest for the night, eh, Percival?" Lancelot nudged the bulky knight, who enjoyed the stories about Emrys and druidic prophecies. Percival nodded firmly in agreement, shooting Arthur an encouraging smile. The muscular man tilted his head towards Freya, indicating Arthur should pay attention to the very enthusiastic druid girl, who was bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet with anticipation.

Lancelot turned his attention back to Arthur with a welcoming smile. "We've heard these stories multiple times. I'm sure Freya would love to tell them to a fresh audience."

Freya's sweet, childlike smile was very hard to deny. Arthur sighed and inevitably gave in. "Go on, then," he mumbled almost sulkily.

Freya's smile split her face before she burst out excitedly, "Percival, which story should I tell? A _prince_ , Percy, I'm telling one of my stories to a _prince!"_ The girl giggled, sending a smile to Arthur.

"You've told stories to Emrys before, and he enjoyed them," Lancelot pointed out.

Freya blushed slightly, and sputtered out, "Well, that's different! I _know_ him, and the stories are about him! He's like a brother to me; a _big_ brother, like Percival!" Freya said, skipping over to the muscle man, and clung to his arm.

"So! What story should I tell the prince of Camelot?" she asked again as she tugged the large knight towards the enormous central bonfire. She situated them upon one of the many logs that surrounded the roaring flames.

Lancelot laughed and winked at Arthur. "I think she fancies her so called 'brother,'" Lancelot teased Freya whilst walking towards the girl.

Freya huffed indignantly. " _I do not!_ And besides, he's a _prince_ ," she trailed off, face flushed.

Arthur mumbled under his breath, "What's wrong with being a prince, then?'

"Maybe I should tell the one where Emrys meets the second of the three high priestesses and learns he needs to go on a quest to the White Mountains get a pure white dragon egg so it can be hatched on time or—or where he defended Camelot by defeating the all powerful dark mage Cornelius Sigan—"

"Where was I during that?" Arthur interrupted Freya's waterfall of ideas, confused.

"I believe Ser Leon said you were on a hunting trip when milord and I visited Camelot for that meeting, we were rather disappointed we didn't get to meet you in person," Lancelot explained with a smile. He and Arthur took their seats on the same long log.

Freya's verbal deluge continued as though it had never ceased, "—oh, Percival, do you remember the one where Emrys had pretended to be a peasant with his manservant and got caught in a bar fight? One of our newest knights got his knighthood because of that, didn't he?" Freya smiled, knowing the answer to that question was positive.

Arthur's eyebrows raised to his hairline, he was sure that one sounded familiar—he, himself, had pretended to be a peasant with Merlin _and_ had gotten into a bar fight, but that was with _Gwaine_ , the roguish traveller whose company he had enjoyed.

"I could tell about how he first met the Lady Morgana when she had first discovered her magical talents? I've heard that was very interesting, since she didn't know how to control herself. Didn't she sneeze and accidently create strong winds that whisked Emrys out of a castle window?" Freya giggled. "Or—or—!" She trailed off for a moment in thought. "Percival, do you have an idea?" she asked Percival once more, chin in hand as she waited.

Arthur and Lancelot both looked expectantly at Percival, but only one of the two wondered if the well-built knight was going to answer Freya's question. Percival looked deep in thought and torn between a few choices. During this brief lull, Arthur happened to look back over his shoulder to see Iseldir darting back into his tent, dismissing himself from this conversation. Potions to finish, no doubt.

"Maybe you could tell the story of Nimueh's recent defeat?" Lancelot asked. Percival's eyes brightened at the question and he nodded quickly in agreement. Arthur didn't know if he should be disappointed that the quiet knight hadn't spoken... or if he should have known he wouldn't have uttered a single word at all.

"Oh, _yes_!" Freya clapped her hands together and stood from the log in one fluid motion. She looked around at the small group she had gathered, focusing especially on the two Essetirian knights and the prince of Camelot. Arthur blinked in surprise as he watched her prepare herself. The girl seemed to... _shift_ , an accomplished and polished storyteller appeared where once a little girl had stood. Her demeanour changed, she held herself differently, and her voice, when she spoke, held weight.

"Now, everyone knows that Emrys was long foretold to be the most powerful warlock who walks the earth, greater than those who once walked the earth and greater still than any who ever _will_ walk the earth," Freya began, eyes twinkling.

Arthur looked taken aback. _Someone_ that _powerful? Did this person exist before I made that wish? No, he couldn't have... I've not even heard mention of him before,_ he mused, then blinked and listened again as the girl continued.

"But! There was once a high priestess... named Nimueh," Freya regaled her audience. Arthur didn't bother to hide his scowl at the name of the witch who had tried to kill him and destroy his kingdom on multiple occasions. He lost himself again in the cadence of Freya's voice, as her storytelling was remarkable. She didn't recite the story so much as perform it with gestures, movement, changing volume, pace, fluid facial expressions and dramatic pauses.

"She was nice, and fair, but the power of being a high priestess consumed her. She became empty inside, nothing but a void which only more power could fill: she wanted the throne of Essetir for herself. To this end, the witch sent out... a questing beast. _One_ bite from such a beast would surely seal a man's fate, as it was a creature conjured from the worst nightmares of a long dead king. _Not only_ is its bite fatal, _but_ it is feared as an omen of _impending doom_..." Freya trailed off ominously, before continuing with a proud smile.

"Our king rode to fight it. He wanted to attack it straightaway, for he would _not_ let the creature threaten _his_ kingdom."

Freya paused and looked around at her audience, her face set in a grave expression before she spoke three words: "He was bitten."

Arthur noticed Lancelot smiling softly at Freya's performance; Percival appeared hypnotized, sitting as far forward on the log as he could as he hung on the girl's every word. He smiled to himself at the gentle giant's rapt enjoyment of the story he had obviously heard many times before. He scanned the audience as well: young, old, male, female; the mix of listeners was varied and grew slowly as other villagers were drawn to the performance. He quickly turned his own attention back to the story in progress, hoping he hadn't missed much.

"To aid the king, Emrys made the long trek to The Isle of the Blessed, where Nimueh resided: beyond the White Mountains, through the Valley of The Fallen Kings, and to the north of the Great Seas of Meredor.

"He made a deal with the witch: his life for his father's. Nimueh reluctantly agreed to the deal and gave Emrys a cup of enchanted water, which, when his father drank it, would initiate the trade of life forces. In a short time, Emrys was on his way back to his kingdom.

"As promised, the king was back in good health after imbibing the enchanted water, but Emrys did not feel the ill effects of dying... no, it was our lady queen whose life force began to slowly dwindle. Enraged, Emrys stormed to the Isle of the Blessed once more. He would remind the priestess of their deal, demand that it was _his_ life to be taken, not anyone else's!

"When the warlock arrived at the Isle, he found to his great dismay that his good friend and manservant, William, had already confronted the sorceress for him... and taken his place by offering his own life in trade for the queen's. His lifeless form lay sprawled next to the altar in the middle of the island, an empty cup near his outstretched hand. Emrys angrily confronted the duplicitous dark-haired damsel and demanded that she bring his manservant back."

"She said... that Emrys was not destined to die at her hands," Freya took this moment to take in a deep breath.

Arthur blinked and thought, _I've heard that line before. Not destined to die at her hands..._ The prince sighed quietly as he recalled when the very same enchantress had manipulated him into thinking she was a victim of her made-up master's attacks and that she had been lost in the forest that, come to think of it, she must have known very well. Out of supposed gratitude for saving her from a cockatrice she claimed she would show him the morteaus flower in a secluded cave... which was, of course, a trap. " _You are not destined to die at my hands_ ," she had said, before leaving him to a horde of spiders. The memory came and went in an instant, leaving him to the story in progress.

"Nimueh then offered Emrys a deal: they could join forces and take over the seven kingdoms together, as they each held considerable power. Unfortunately for the priestess, she made a fatal error: she underestimated our prince's loyalty and devotion to his kingdom."

Freya smiled and scanned the audience, making eye contact with various members of her small crowd. Fully immersed in her storytelling, she continued speaking.

"Emrys vehemently rejected her invitation to the dark side, so to speak: he threw a spell at her, but Nimueh easily dodged. Emrys, for his part, had underestimated the witch's prowess in magical duels.

"The scorned high priestess threw a forceful fireball at Emrys which hit him right in the chest, burning him painfully," she pounded her fists against her youthful, flat chest and staggered back a couple paces, indicating where and how badly Emrys had been hit. "Our prince is no slouch in a magical duel; fuelled by his anger and despair, he had already struck back with a vengeance.

"At the precise moment the fireball left Nimueh's fingertips, Emrys called upon the elemental power of lightening. An enormous deluge of crackling energy pulsed into existence, a writhing, rope-like formation appearing to be woven from hundreds of normal lightning bolts!" Freya stood dramatically, stance wide and arms reaching toward the clouds, which were tinted with the colours of the approaching sunset.

"The sizzling bolt of dazzling death surged from sky to skin, striking Nimueh as dead as, well, a door nail." Freya giggled at the simile she had used and Lancelot chuckled under his breath.

"William began to stir from his position collapsed by the altar where the short yet fierce battle had taken place, completing the circle of sacrifices to save lives. Emrys had gained the power over Life and Death," Freya wistfully smiled. "A life for a life, as they say," She murmured quietly and seemed to loose herself in thought in that moment.

Percival smiled at the story, and looked to his companions, eager to hear their opinions of the story. It was one of his favourites, after all!

Arthur winced slightly at Freya's last choice of words, _a life for a life_ ; it seemed to be a popular theme with magic.

"How did you like that one?" Freya addressed Arthur, her face flushed and eyes sparkling with excitement. "Shall I tell another story?"

Before Arthur replied, Lancelot cleared his throat and quietly spoke to Freya, "Your mum is probably looking for you by your tent, Freya, and she may be worried." The dark-haired man looked towards the sky, now painted with dusk, and gave her a friendly wink. "It's rather late; you should be asleep by now, anyway."

Freya quickly nodded. "Of course!" She stood up and bowed towards her audience, chirping, "Thank you for listening today!" With an adorable smile adorning her lips she skipped away from the bonfire and toward her waiting mother.

"She... wow. She's a sweet girl," Arthur said, more than a bit awed by the story that had been told. Lancelot nodded in agreement and opened his mouth to speak, but the soft, deep voice which met Arthur's ears did not match with the dark-haired knight at all.

"I love listening to her tell stories. Her eyes get this focused look to them, and I can almost see the world around her get so small while the story in her head grows."

Arthur realised it was Percival who had spoken. Startled, he really couldn't form a coherent response to the sleeveless knight's surprisingly insightful statement.

Lancelot only nodded with a smile to his fellow comrade in arms. "We should get some rest for the night ourselves. Please allow me to show you to your tent," Lancelot directed his final statement towards Arthur as he got to his feet, ready to escort the blonde prince to his sleeping quarters.

-x-

Arthur's tent was a soft blue colour, located near the large chieftain's tent in a position of honour. Supposing he should prepare to rest for the night, Arthur removed his boots and stockings and his bare feet were gratefully met with a soft, woven rug. Its worn state spoke of its age, but it was obviously very clean. He set his boots under a table—adorned with the ubiquitous triskelion symbol—then pulled his leather hunting gloves out of his pocket and tossed them atop the same table.

Staring down at his shining armour, he gave a scowl and decided to unhook the clasp to his cape before even _starting_ to pull off the bulky armour. With the crimson cloak folded neatly and placed on top of the same small table, covering the gloves, Arthur began to ponder different strategies to escape from his armour.

Well, the belt was always next. After much more trouble than he really felt it should take, he managed to figure out that his belt had slid down and become wedged below the tassets at the bottom of his breastplate instead of staying at his midsection where it was supposed to be centred. Arthur scowled and realised it was because that _idiot_ Merlin had put too many holes in the belt and fastened the thing so it would be just loose enough to slip below his armour. He reached to unbuckle the belt and discovered that the buckle itself was located in a most inconvenient position nearly in the middle of his backside. Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow. Really?

" _Oi, you can't even dress yourself without me!"_ Merlin's cheeky voice sounded in his head, a memory of their banter earlier that day—was that really only this morning?—before they had gone on their fateful hunting trip. The boy had been unusually early, but it was probably due to the fact his manservant _hadn't_ gotten any sleep after he returned so late from gathering herbs.

Arthur sighed, but valiantly continued the effort to undress himself. Since the belt was always next when he had Merlin's assistance, he was determined to stick as close to familiar patterns as possible. Thus, he grunted as he attempted to quickly reach his still-plate-covered arms behind himself and under the metal tassets to reach the belt buckle, instead of going over like a sensible person would have. Naturally this caused him to overbalance and fall backwards, accompanied by a cacophony of crashing metal armour.

Lancelot chose this moment to burst through the tent flaps with folded cloth material in his hands and concern on his face. "Your Highness, I heard a ruckus! Is there something the matter, are you—" the dark haired knight halted mid-sentence, his eyes widening as they discovered the heap of prince on the ground. Lancelot felt a laugh bubble in his throat and he struggled to control himself. Arthur could feel his face heat up in embarrassment from his place on the floor. Lancelot murmured a quick apology and took a deep breath to calm his laughter.

The dark-haired man then laughed quietly once more, before saying kindly, "Here, please allow me to help you with that." He set the blankets down on Arthur's sleeping mat and moved to the blonde prince, helping him to his feet. Arthur gave a rather embarrassed chuckle and gladly let Lancelot assist with removing his pauldrons, vambraces and plackerts. The large pieces of armour were set on the floor next to his boots and Arthur victoriously spun his belt around so that the buckle was in front and undid it with a flourish. He stacked his belt, scabbard and sword on top of his folded red raiment. After Lancelot helped Arthur remove the heavy chainmail shirt he gave a satisfied sigh whilst removing the scratchy gambeson underneath from his torso. He mumbled a soft 'thanks' that Lancelot probably didn't hear.

"I will be in the tent next to yours, if you need me," Lancelot said with a polite smile. "I have to take care of something first—here are some extra blankets from Iseldir, should you need them," the dark-haired Essetirian knight gestured to the neat squares of folded blankets that the knight had tossed onto his makeshift bed, which Arthur gladly accepted. Lancelot gave a nod as he bade Arthur good night and disappeared through the tent flap.

The prince quite easily took off his tunic and trousers and tossed them atop the wooden chest in the far corner of the tent. The blonde nodded to himself, proud of his accomplishment. Since he had gotten comfortable, he made his way to the simple mat in the middle of the tent, mussing up the blankets around him. Arthur yawned widely, he hadn't realised how tired he was until Lancelot departed. _I wonder… if I am to sleep… will I wake up back in Camelot with all of this having only been one strange dream?_ He pondered this thought before he slipped off into a refreshing, easy sleep.

-x-

Arthur woke early, his internal clock accustomed to Merlin waking him at daybreak. He sat up and pushed the blankets off of his bare chest. Sleepily rubbing calloused hands over his face, he tentatively cracked an eyelid and took in his surroundings. _...I am still here. Am I not living a dream, then?_ Standing, clad in only his pants, he stooped and grabbed his trousers and jumped into them. He picked up his tunic and put that on easily enough, then looked to his armour with a sinking feeling. He was _not_ going to ask someone else for help with this—especially with Merlin's teasing voice saying things like, ' _You're going to be a king, and you can't even put on your clothes by yourself?'_

After donning his armour with much difficulty, Arthur walked out of his tent. He was met with the sight of Percival and Lancelot talking quietly as Percival tended food on a spit and a frying pan in the bonfire. Percival was first to notice Arthur and threw an apple to the blonde prince, who caught it nonchalantly.

Lancelot noticed Arthur's quiet entrance after Percival had greeted the prince, glanced towards him, "Good morning, your highness! We should be able to depart soon, ser; I sent out a messenger bird last night to the capital for horses. One of your knights should be by to escort us."

Arthur gave a polite nod of acknowledgement as he stared into the bonfire. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, sure he was seeing things. He looked again, but it was the same: the wood wasn't burning. Granted, it was most definitely on fire, but it wasn't being consumed—the logs weren't even blackened. No wood ever need be added to this bonfire! _That's pretty convenient, I suppose—for magic._ He yawned, biting into his apple hungrily.

"Did you sleep well, ser?" Lancelot's voice rang out.

Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. _And you can't convince me I've awakened from this dream._

Percival continued to quietly and efficiently prepare different foodstuffs and pack them in a leather bag that Lancelot was holding, for rations when they would travel to the capital of Essetir.

"We should be able to reach the city by dusk if we depart soon. Should we not make it then we shall stay the night in the lower town and set out to the castle the next morning," Lancelot said, as he reached into a small pouch depending from the belt on his hip and pulled out a small scroll. "Along with our king's official reply, it seems that the Lady Morgana has snuck you a letter as well," the dark-haired knight smiled, handing the scroll to Arthur, who took the proffered paper almost cautiously.

Unfurling the scroll, he read, in Morgana's neat cursive script,

_Within the great Essetirian castle walls we are waiting on a feast. Why? Simply because my idiot of a brother decided to get off track because he was sick of being watched by daddy's dogs. How child-like, Arthur. You'll be pleased to know that I sent a 'competent' knight to your rescue. Although I hear you're being tended by Lancelot;_ very _competent, in Guinevere's—my maidservant, since you never bother to remember names—eyes. Aw, you should see her now: she's blushing like a maiden; how adorable!_

Arthur could almost hear her teasing laughter to her friend, a sound Arthur had missed hearing.

_Now, I've insisted that they send you Leon and George—such a perfect servant, don't you think? I know you_ never _get enough of his brass jokes._

Arthur scowled, knowing full well that Morgana had sent the perfect yet utterly _boring_ servant on purpose, most likely to irritate him. He then couldn't help cracking a smile followed by a light-hearted laugh, his eyes full of mirth. S _he_ would _do something like that just to annoy me, wouldn't she?_

_Enough of that, I am eagerly awaiting your arrival. You may not know; but their kingdom has great feasts as well as beautiful magic displays. I do hope you hurry your arrogant ego and make to the castle—though with how big it is, you might have some trouble lugging it along with you. Scratch that: you've had it with you your whole life; I'm sure it's just the usual exercise to you by now._

_The king is very eager to meet the egotistical son of his best friend; the queen wishes a nice noble friend for her son. I've already told them not to expect much, don't worry—you won't have to please them at all. The prince is sweet, yet other nobles his around his age tend to be a bit intimidated. You better not be a twat to him like you are other nobles, Arthur! He might actually tolerate you. See you soon, I hope, and try not to get yourself killed, you idiot._

_With much love and something akin to tolerance, Morgana_

Arthur shook his head, and smiled at her sassy writing. This _was_ the Morgana he knew and loved; there was no doubt about that. The blonde prince rolled the scroll up tightly and slid it into his pocket in thought about this prince— _Emrys,_ they called him _._

'Yet, other nobles tend to be a bit intimidated,' Arthur reread. He supposed it was because of his magic—he had heard the story of Emrys being able to call the very lightningfrom the sky and strike a high priestess ' _dead_ _as a door nail_ '—Freya's phrasing very cleverly made light of that, Arthur realised. Not to mention that the Essetirian prince had gained power over life and death… though since Arthur didn't really understand what that entailed, he was more impressed by the lightning-on-demand.

The blonde ran his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit, not that he would ever admit it—while he thought. _The stories have to be fabricated, even if just a little. No one could be that powerful, even if they did have magic. No magical threat to Camelot was ever hard to overcome. They were more like… a pesky infestation more than an_ actual _threat._ He wondered if Emrys was as arrogant as he had first imagined—Morgana seemed to like him just fine. _However, since she had seemed a bit taken by Valiant, who was a complete arse, it wasn't saying_ that _much._

At the thought of the knight Valiant— _who didn't deserve the title_ _'knight,'_ Arthur thought bitterly—Arthur thought of a weak magic attempt at his life. The man had an enchanted shield, which was easy to see through as the snakes _came out of the shield of their own accord._ Out of the shield, they were just snakes, no different from those which Arthur would simply crush under a boot whilst he was hunting.

Pensively, Arthur then pondered what he had heard of the Questing Beast and its supposedly fatal bite. Arthur, himself, didn't die. If he believed the tale Freya related, someone would have had to make a deal with Nimueh: their life to save his. But who would have done such a thing? Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples until a memory of a quite… odd conversation came to the forefront of his mind.

" _I need to talk to you." Merlin had rushed into his room, confronting Arthur._

" _You still haven't got it yet, have you? I decide when we need to talk." Arthur had replied, lazily twirling his goblet of wine in his hand._

" _Not today," Merlin stated defiantly, almost daring Arthur to argue with him._

" _I sometimes wonder if you know who I am," the blonde uttered, voice filled with disbelief and a hint of wonder._

" _Oh, I know who you are," Merlin declared, a smirk forming on his face._

" _Good," the blonde began, haughtily._

_Merlin cut his words short with, "You're a prat, and a royal one at that."_

_Arthur really should have expected that one. He remembered chuckling before asking_ , _"Are you ever going to change, Merlin?"_

_Merlin gave a melancholy smile before saying softly, "No, you'd get bored." In a stronger voice, now that his resolve for what he had wanted to say no longer threatened to leave him, he continued, "But promise me this: if you get another servant, don't get a bootlicker."_

" _If this is you trying to leave your job..." Arthur warned voice low._

" _No," Merlin had quickly answered, "I'm happy to be your servant. Till the day I die."_

_They stared at each other a while, pale blue eyes locked with determined dark blue ones before Arthur admitted, "Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times," Arthur had shaken his head in disbelief here, choosing not to continue what he would have said._

" _Well, I know_ you, _" Merlin had given a soft smile, "and you're a great warrior. One day, you'll be a great king."_

" _That's very kind of you," Arthur had said slowly, having fully expected Merlin to make a jab at him._

" _But you must learn to listen as well as you fight," Merlin had chided._

" _Any other pointers?" Arthur had sarcastically asked._

" _No, that's it. Just… don't be a prat." Merlin had quickly left the room after that._

Until the day I die… _Merlin, of course._ That was right after Arthur had miraculously healed from the so-called _fatal_ bite. Merlin would have been the only one reckless and _thoughtless_ enough to sacrifice his _life_ for the prince's—and Arthur wouldn't have even _known._ That odd conversation that stuck in his mind—it had been his farewell.

When Morgana had told him the next morning that Gaius had neglected to bring the lady her sleeping draught for the night, he had thought nothing of it; he figured that Gaius had forgotten in his strife to retrieve Merlin from the local tavern as his manservant loved to spend his time there—didn't he? _The two of them were both gone that night, after Merlin talked to me,_ Arthur realised, as Merlin hadn't attended him that evening. Arthur considered, suddenly remembering the night with such _clarity._ He thought back to the story, how Nimueh didn't take Emrys' life, but a loved one's instead. _Maybe Merlin had given his life for mine, but the witch took Gaius' life instead...? No, Gaius would have been the person to go to the isle himself so Merlin wouldn't have to make the second trip to give his life once more._

Gaius was alive the next morning, and so was Merlin—late to wake him up, but alive. Arthur scowled, and rubbed his temples with more pressure, feeling a headache forming. This… this _magic_ thing was too complicated, and he wasn't _completely_ sure that Merlin would have done something like that, no matter how likely it may be. Consorting with sorcerers was against the law, saving the prince's life or not. Connecting these kinds of things was stressing him out more than it was worth.

" _Arthur."_ Arthur was startled out of his thoughts, and gave Lancelot an odd look, being addressed by his given name from the now-older knight for the first time since he had arrived in Essetir.

"Forgive me for being so informal, sire, but you weren't responding. You seem to be more thoughtful than the Lady Morgana gave you credit for," Lancelot smiled, and elbowed Arthur almost playfully, but caught himself afterwards, and mumbled an awkward, "Sorry, sire."

Arthur smiled reassuringly at the knight, pleased by Lancelot's sudden comfort around him. "It's no problem at all; but, did you need to tell me something?"

Lancelot nodded, and looked up to the watch towers near the main drawbridge to the encampment. "Percival says the druids have spotted three horses coming from the direction of the castle; one of the riders is clad in red. It's very likely they're your escorts," the dark-haired knight told Arthur.

Arthur frowned, "I didn't hear the druids say a thing," he said, looking at Percival, who gave a sly smile, and tapped his cranium.

Lancelot shrugged, "The druids have a form of communication that non-magical people, like us, don't have," Lancelot explained. Arthur nodded slowly, though he wasn't sure if he actually understood what the other man was explaining to him.

「Like this, Young Pendragon, 」Arthur jumped when he heard Iseldir's rustic voice inside of his head. He tried to turn towards where he heard the man speak, but he realised the man didn't _speak,_ but had in fact spoken _to_ him… in his own thoughts.

"You are to depart soon, Ser Lancelot," Arthur jumped once again as Iseldir's voice sounded beside him once more, but not in his head. Arthur looked to Iseldir, who gave him a quick quirk of the lips—was that a smirk?!—that Arthur didn't know the seemly stoic man was capable of producing. Arthur noticed Percival was laughing rather loudly near the bonfire, and he wondered if the almost-giant knight had seen and heard the exchange. Scratch that, the bulky knight had obviously held witness to the exchange—he was now producing snorting sounds.

Feeling heat rush to his cheeks in embarrassment, he looked around the camp once more. He noticed a multitude of druids slipping out of their tents and taking their places from the opening of the encampment to the bonfire in the middle of the camp with an isle the width of the encampment gates. Studying the cloaks of different colours, Arthur asked, "Are they doing a ritual of sorts?"

"We are simply going to see you off to the castle, young Pendragon," Iseldir informed him. "Your entourage arrives." As he said this, the drawbridge was raised, revealing Ser Leon mounted on a horse along with George who was holding the reins of three other horses.

Lancelot raised his hand in a salute-style greeting towards Ser Leon who easily returned his salute with a smile. Before Arthur could ask about the extra horse, as two of them were most obviously for himself and Lancelot, said knight looked towards Iseldir and inquired, "You said you had a young druid man who was to leave with us to receive tutoring from our prince?" Iseldir nodded and directed Lancelot to glance behind himself, where two figures were approaching. Arthur recognized them from the previous day when he first arrived at the encampment; he had seen them gathering water from the well.

"Captain," The blonde woman greeted respectfully as they came to a stop in front of Lancelot. The young woman walked beside the young man, once again clad in a teal cloak, her hand resting gently on the druid's lower back. The man's face indicated he was slightly exasperated at his mother's clingy behaviour, but there was an obvious affectionate glint in his eyes.

Lancelot turned, regarding the woman with a serene smile, "Yes, sera?"

_Captain—as in captain of the_ guard _? Lancelot was?_ Arthur looked pensively to Lancelot, wondering if he was really that capable of a knight. He knew the man had potential—and a lot of it—but to be the captainof the guard? What else had traditional rules about ' _only noble blood_ ' had made his kingdom miss out on potentially wonderful people that could just as easily serve?

"Please, _do_ remind my Mordred to be careful! He gets in trouble more oft than not..." The woman trailed off, nervously tucking strands of long blonde hair behind her ears as she spoke softly. "He hasn't been to the castle yet, he's only seventeen," the young mother said, worrying her lip. The young man flushed slightly at the last sentence while Lancelot shot him an apologetic and understanding smile.

_Mordred…_ now why did that sound familiar?

Memories began to rush through his head. He was running through underground tunnels that led away from the dungeons—so conveniently; they must have been made in secret during the Purge by people who held sympathy for those with magic who had also smuggled magic users out of the city—and to the outskirts of Camelot.

He remembered his worry that Merlin wouldn't arrive on time—that _stupid idiot_! Always late with everything, yet couldn't he, _just this once,_ be early and save him from a heart attack? _If father asks, tell him I went on a hunting trip,_ Arthur had said to Merlin who had helped the druid boy onto the horse. He had always done what his father had asked, but so recently he had started doubting his father's opinion on magic...

" _Wait, I don't even know your name! At least tell me your name," he had called to Mordred's and Iseldir's retreating forms after he had smuggled Mordred out of the castle._

" _My name is Mordred," the boy finally spoke, voice young and sure._

" _Yeah? Then, good luck, Mordred," Arthur smiled, feeling like he had done something_ right _regarding magic._

_Ah! The young druid boy I helped out of the castle, that's why he looked so familiar before, because Morgana and Merlin had roped me into helping them smuggle the boy out of the castle..._ his thought trailed off. Merlin; again he wondered why he had yet to run into Merlin, but he hadn't run into any other knight or peasant he knew from within the walls of Camelot besides Lancelot. He wasn't so sure the brief meeting of Percival really counted as him _knowing_ the potential knight of Camelot—though here in this dream state where he found himself the built man _was_ a knight, of Essetir, but a knight nonetheless. And soon he would meet Leon and his temporary servant, George. He suddenly felt sure that he would meet everyone else as soon as he arrived at the castle of the kingdom of Essetir. Looking back at Mordred once more, it was a wonder Arthur had recognised him at all. The once young boy had turned into a fine young man—a thought that puzzled Arthur further.

"I'm sure he will have no quarrel at all with mentoring your boy's magic. Do not worry, sera, as Emrys' kindness is as memorable, if not more so, than his wrath." The term, Arthur had learned, was the people's way of warning. 'You shouldn't do that; else Emrys will uncoil his wrath upon you.' Arthur scowled; he couldn't see how one man could be as revered and feared as a _god,_ yet still be seen as the people's future king.

His own father had a lot going for him, as well: he was feared and out of that fear was borne respect. The people listened to him, but those people would just as well mean to stab him in the back, if given the chance to. Uther was not a kind and compassionate leader as he might have been before Ygraine had met her untimely death. The blonde prince shuddered to think of what kind of king he would be, given his father's example. Kill all with magic—that seemed to be the only consistent thing in Uther's life. Yet some of the magic users Arthur himself had seen and… exterminated had not looked evil, only frightened. It was no wonder magical people hated Uther. And what of the young Mordred he had to smuggle out of the kingdom himself? The little boy hadn't a single evil bone in his body let alone be an all-powerful evil ruler. 'Tis the way with druids: a peaceful folk.

Emrys was treated as a king by these people, but he was no more than a prince. No more than he, even if the other _did_ have supposedly 'powerful' magic. This Emrys must have a dreadful ego to rival the one Arthur was accused of having, being made out to be some Druidic God by the druid clans around him. A pompous attitude, like all well-talked-about noblemen seemed to have, including Arthur, at one point. Had he not been taught humility by Merlin he still might be that way now. He supposed he was still arrogant; Merlin probably wouldn't be able to banter that trait out of him.

_Now meaning before I made the wish and was Crown Prince?_ He scratched his head, deep in thought. _In this 'now' I am not Crown Prince, nor am I even of age to be considered such. In this 'now' I am still considered nothing more than a royal prat,_ _if what Morgana told Lancelot is any indication._

His lips split into a smile. The insult that he so loathed had turned into a—dare he say it?—friendly nickname that he had come to enjoy hearing from his manservant's ever-chatty lips. Looking upon the blonde woman who was speaking with Lancelot once more, he recognised her features as someone he had also met before, _Morgause. She seems less forbidding than when she had challenged me and sent me on that odd quest. She seems… at peace, almost._

Morgause smiled a sweet smile at Mordred, her expression showing none of the hatred she had borne for the Pendragons' during her life before he had made the wish to bring his mother back.

Arthur wondered if that was what the oppression of magic did. Turn people bitter. Was it the oppression of magic, or magic itself?

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: "All the names I used for the armour pieces I have looked up and done research on. If anyone knows something different about the placement and what not, please feel free to correct me! (:"


	4. Simply Because You Have Wished For It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're off to see the wizard... heh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a filler here

Lancelot glanced up at the sky above, checking the sun's position in the sky to gauge the amount of time he had left to spend fraternising. The knight easily gave a charming smile Morgause's way, "I must tell you that we are to set off soon. I don't want to keep the prince's escort waiting too long," Lancelot said to the blond sorceress, inclining his head to where Leon was waiting just outside the gates of the druid encampment.

Morgause quickly squeezed Mordred's bicep before pushing him forwards gently, and thanked Arthur and Lancelot in turn for accompanying her son to the castle. Lancelot let a bright smile take his features, waving off her gratitude, "It's nothing, really. I'm glad to have your son come to the castle with us, I'm sure he'll have a grand time."

"I don't know," Morgause frowned. The blonde picked at the hem of the sleeves on her robe, her tone contemplating, "He doesn't talk to people he doesn't know very well and he might not be able to tell you what he needs, he hasn't really travelled far from home, and he— _oh_." Morgause looked towards her blushing son. _Or, I think he is blushing. I really can't see his face because he has the hood of his cloak up—especially when he is looking down at his feet._ Arthur thought, studying the boy. The prince looked towards Lancelot, who had amusement adorning his features.

"He just told me I'm worrying too much..." Morgause said, "I just can't help it, my little bird leaving the nest..." Lancelot gave an amused laugh, "All is well, sera. Do not be worried, we'll take good care of him."

Morgause gave a hefty sigh, "I suppose there is no convincing you to stay here?" She asked her cloaked son with a playful smile while holding out a leather bag towards him. The young man shook his head vigorously, taking the bag from his mum, who laughed. "Take care, Mordred." To this, Mordred nodded. Morgause smiled once more, and then the two were silent, making eye contact. Arthur saw Mordred nod again, but there were no words that he had heard that Mordred would be confirming.

 _I suppose it's a druid thing to be so odd in terms of communication?_ Arthur shook his head, not wanting to think on the subject anymore. All the magic talk and being around the druids was making him nervous— _no,I'm not nervous,_ he thought. Arthur Pendragon was never nervous. (Even if in this situation he was, not that he was going to accept it.)

 _This atmosphere here is nice,_ Arthur thought, _I'll be a bit sad to see it go._ The people and the encampment itself had a warm and close knit kind of quality that his home in the castle did not have. As he studied the druidsstanding side by side wishing them safe travels in with a pleasant silence he could not help but notice the obvious warmth between them, how they all, despite living in a large settlement, probably knew each other by remembered the cold atmosphere of the castle walls, and despite being so filled with people, Arthur never bothered to learn the names of all the servants—there wasn't any cause to, not _really_. There wasn't warmth between the people of the castle, and that, in itself, made his home in his father's castle seem less than Mordred's home surrounded by warmth and close relations.

The colourful tents behind them were very different than the one constant cream coloured stone everywhere. This place was full of life and love. _And magic_ , thought Arthur irritably. _That's what that exchange was_ ,Arthur thought, stealing a glance and the still hooded Mordred, _they must be speaking in that weird mind whisper that Iseldir told me of._ The blonde let out a long sigh whilst running a hand over his tired face.

The prince loathed leaving such a warm and welcoming place, but he was eager to get out of the place that held so many magic users.

"Good luck, Mordred."

Arthur perked up at these words. Squinting, he looked towards the voice of them.

Iseldir. The druid clad in his forest green cloak and robes had made his way to the bon fire in the centre of the living quarters of the encampment, but Arthur was sure the man had spoken those few words. "Let's depart," Lancelot said, taking the lead.

And so the trio made up of a Druid, a Prince, and a knight of a kingdom of magic made it out of the wooden gate as the inhabitants of the encampment cheerfully bid them a fare thee well. Arthur flashed his princely smile with ease to the druids as if they were the people of Camelot crowding around to see him. _I wonder what father would think;me, the Prince of Camelot, prancing around with a druid and a knight of a king who accepts magic—and being...marginally okay with it._

Arthur looked behind him to see the warm faces of the Druids as they broke off from the large group, which had wished them safe travels out of the encampment, to go about their day. It wasn't the faces of the many druids, or the hidden hooded nature of some of the others, nor was it the colourful tents that had an impact on him; it was Iseldir. The older man stood by the bon fire with his staff and was staring at him with an intense gaze. Arthur quickly looked to his front, focusing his gaze at the horses waiting to be mounted.

「You will have many questions when you reach the castle and meet its inhabitants.」

Although startled, Arthur recovered easily; oddly used to the... mind invasion by the druid man. Arthur looked back over his shoulder to see the chieftain. Arthur would have liked to have another conversation face-to-face with the man before he left, but to this prince's dismay, the druid had flittered off from his previous perch from the bonfire logs. Arthur craned his neck to see the entirety of the encampment from his position outside of it, yet the man wasn't anywhere the prince could see him, no matter how hard he looked through the gate. _It unnerves me that I cannot see your face, though I hear your voice._ Arthur felt a bit silly, and he wasn't sure that Iseldir would get his reply, as he didn't hold the magic that the druid leader had.

「And yet you are okay with speaking with me in such a manner, despite being raised to hold hatred towards magic in your heart.」

Arthur let his eyes wander to Lancelot speaking to Leon, the two greeted each other as if they were old friends; arms clasped and smiles cheerful. Yet, his eyes immediately flickered back to the open gate when Iseldir had said he had been raised to hate magic, _I had figured here I had not been raised to hate magic. Tell me, Iseldir, how do you know something that has not happened in this...this place?_

「You are less oblivious than I had previously thought, Young Pendragon. I can say I am surprised you have picked up on the magical nature of the situation. You have wished yourself in a different realm, Young Prince, and there are people at the castle who can help you with this certain predicament.」

 _I do not understand how I came to be here, this is clearly a mistake,_ Arthur raked his hands through his golden hair in frustration as he waited for Iseldir's reply. It did not come.

"Prince Arthur, we are almost ready to depart," Lancelot said, looking back over his shoulder at the blonde prince who was still stuck in thought. The blonde prince gave an irritated sigh to himself as it looked like Iseldir wouldn't speak again. Arthur nodded absentmindedly, getting the knight's hint and made his way over to one of the horses. Letting his fingers run through the horse's mane, Arthur let his eyes roam around the exit of the druid encampment—the entrance and exit of the encampment followed a dirt road that ran straight through, exiting right at the border of Camelot. Studying the trees in the distance he found it looked like it always had.

Arthur swiftly got on his horse with ease, and watched the servant—presumably his current servant who was pointedly not Merlin—helpMordred clamber onto the horse that had been brought for him. George wrapped the reins around his hand and wrist, ensuring the horse wouldn't run off with the inexperienced rider.

Behind them, the wooden gate closed quickly."All set?" Lancelot's voice, touched with a soft foreign accent, sounded a query at the Druid boy next to him. Mordred fiddled with the hood covering his face and then the straps of the small leather bag he was carrying before giving a sharp nod in affirmation.

Lancelot smiled sincerely at the boy before looking towards Leon. He held his arm out to clasp Leon's outstretched arm again in a greeting and a manly show of affection. "It's been a while," the dark haired knight said. "So it has." Leon agreed. Lancelot looked towards the servant who had reins in his hands, expectantly. George eagerly gave the Essetirian knight the leather reins of one of the mares. The dark haired knight threw a leg over the horse and mounted it.

Lancelot was then quiet, running over their travelling plans before speaking them aloud. "I'm sure we'll be able to hit the lower town before we should stop for the night." The sandy haired knight nodded in agreement before Lancelot spoke once more, "If we make haste we will be able to make it to the castle by nightfall, but I would think it better to let the horses rest every now and then, and we can replenish our energy as well in those stops along the way."

"That sounds like a plan." Leon then looked to Arthur, "Your father wasn't surprised you wandered off, sire—though he is rather put off that you weren't there to meet the king of Essetir." Arthur nodded slowly. _Everyone assumes I will 'wander off' without a word. Am I that rebellious and immature where we are now? In this realm, as Iseldir calls it..._ Lancelot and Leon stirred their horses to face the opposite way of the encampment, and Arthur pulled on his horse's reins to do the same.

The clearing they were in and soon leaving was a beautiful shade of green and life. At their feet—or the horse's hooves—was a well worn path into the forest that began a few horse lengths away.

As they started trotting away, Iseldir's deep voice resonated within his mind.

「This has happened because you wished for it, and because Destiny replied to your wish. Remember that this is not a mistake, everything happens for a reason. This will aid, not hinder you in the days to come, Young Pendragon. You will realise much and understand more than you have. The answers you have yearned for will be in your grasp.」

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original A/N: "If the next chapter goes according to plan (it probably won't) I'm introducing another character. Does anyone want to take a guess?"
> 
> Spoiler: it went according to plan, but it took me a year to get it posted. I'm a mess.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves for George: the brass loving servant.

They had been riding in silence until they could not see the large wooden encampment in the distance anymore due to the foliage of the forest they rode in. Greens of all different colours made up the trees that surrounded them, with the occasional splash of colour from the birds or flowers spotted near tree trunks or on vines throughout their journey. The dark horse the prince was riding was not one he recognised, and he figured it must be one of Essetir's. Arthur let his gaze flicker over to one side. Mordred still had his cloak covering his face, almost as if he was shy or nervous around those he didn't know—which was true, according to the boy's mother. Arthur remembered the boy hadn't spoken at all—except once—during his illegal stay in Camelot. And that was to say only his name.

The golden prince frowned, staring hard at Mordred's cloaked figure that hid a young man, not who he previously presumed to be a twelve or thirteen year old boy freshly smuggled out of Camelot. _This is a similar feeling to when I first encountered Lancelot of this...'realm'._ The word felt foreign in Arthur's mind. _Lancelot looks older; Mordred did not look like he was seventeen when I brought him out of Camelot...They both have aged, yet I have not. I seem to have gotten younger,_ The Prince frowned in his thinking. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginning of a horrid head ache coming on. Arthur figured the heat radiating from the sun in the cloudless sky did nothing to relieve the pressure in his head.

"Water, Mi'lord?" George asked, perfectly anticipating his needs. Arthur gratefully took the water skin that the servant was handing him, and took large swigs of it.

"Do you think your King would be offended by our tardiness? I don't want to insult him more than we already have, what, with Arthur blatantly refusing to ride all the way there with the King and his Ward's escorts." Leon asked Lancelot, his tone a bit flat, touched with disappointment. The Camelotian knight had shot looks of disapproval towards Arthur throughout his sentence.

Arthur grunted apologetically, though he was slightly annoyed with his head knight for his words. He occupied himself by taking in another gulp ofwater, marvelling at the pleasantness he felt as it slipped down his throat in the midst of heat.

"Mi'Lord Balinor shouldn't hold any grudges against you, Ser Leon." Lancelot reassured.

Arthur involuntarily sputtered out the water he was previously enjoying, and started coughing. Letting the leather water skin drop from his fingers and onto the soft forest floor beneath their horses, he held his hands over his mouth, choking on the remaining bits of water he had, caught between swallowing and spitting it out. George swiftly picked up Arthur's water skin and tried to give it to the prince to help him, but Arthur shook his head, still coughing, and trying to speak.

Leon thumped heartily on Arthur's back a few times, and the prince sucked in a deep breath, seemingly getting himself all together. "Balinor," Arthur rasped the query in express dubiousness, "Bal—" Arthur cleared his throat, as it felt a bit sore and odd for suddenly choking on water. George silently offered the water skin to the prince once more, and Arthur gratefully took in, gulping down the remaining water to sooth his throat.

Leon's eyebrows were held in an arc that could rival Gaius' ever so famous brow, staring at Arthur quizzically. "I don't think dying before we get there will lessen the offence you have already carried out on Essetir's king, little prince." Arthur frowned at Leon, choosing to not respond to his words. Looking away from Leon, Arthur saw the outline of Mordred's cloaked shoulders trembling. _Is he... laughing at me?_ Arthur thought sourly.

Lancelot chuckled more obviously than the druid boy had, "No, no, I'm sure King Balinor will not be offended at all. He has been excited to meet you, you know." Lancelot looked as if he was going to say something more, but Arthur interrupted whilst rubbing his sore throat and throwing his empty water skin at George, who fumbled to catch it.

"Wait, _King_ Balinor— _Balinor—_ your _king?_ You mean Balinor...as in, the Last Dragon Lord?" Arthur sputtered out the question, caught by surprise by the sudden onslaught of the king of Essetir's name once more. _The king isn't Lot or Cenred, but I don't think having a grumpy hermit as king would do the kingdom justice_. The blonde prince thought, thinking of the few character traits he had gathered from meeting the Last Dragon Lordin person when they were in need of a Dragon Lord to defeat the dragon that had been attacking Camelot's citadel.

Leon raised an eyebrow, "I'm glad you listened in our council meetings over neighbouring kingdoms, truly," Arthur was definitely _not_ appreciating the condescending tone the elder knight was giving him, "But the _last_ Dragon Lord? There are a plethora of dragon lords, and I fear it would not be well to only have _one_ Dragon Lord when _dragons_ are almost as common as..." Leon was quite for a moment in thought as he rode through the path with the other four when a few birds let a jubilant song rip loudly from their throats, "Well, song birds, sire. Balinor just happens to have a better connection, a deeper connection, to the Great Dragon—one of the oldest and more powerful dragons in existence." Leon finished, and watched the birds take refuge in the trees from the sweltering sun.

"Oh! Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon," Lancelot gave a smile, "You'll love him, your highness, though he is, ah, as my lord puts it, 'an annoyingly bloody cryptic lizard,'" Lancelot chuckled.

 _The dragon that attacked Camelot had a name...?_ Arthur thought, and sighed. He felt his thoughts pulling him back to one of Gaius' telling of the dragon and how it came to be under the castle before he had ridden out to _fight_ it when they came back without a Dragon Lord—out of options,

" _Before the Purge, Balinor and Nimueh were members of the Court, and each trusted Uther with their lives; the same as Uther trusted his in their hands. When the Queen died, Nimueh fled to the Isle of the Blessed to plead with the power of Life and Death, however; when it had been a fortnight without Nimueh's return and the queen's vigil had already taken place, Uther became suspicions. Thought he that Nimueh was running away after murdering the queen,"_ Gaius had paused here to gather his thoughts, looking worn out.

He had remembered thinking, 'Father is right, those magic bastards can do nothing but evil. But to _murder_ the queen—and on purpose—that was something unheard of. She should have been hunted down and killed for treason.'

" _Uther called Balinor to his chambers, and asked him to call forth the Great Dragon, to which Balinor happily replied—the man loved sharing the appreciation towards dragons. Balinor had always wanted more people to be around the creatures—not just Dragon Lords and the likes. What Balinor didn't know—didn't know until he was bound, gagged, and thrown in the dungeons—that Uther planned to catch the dragon._

 _Uther had a contraption for catching such a large dragon built in secret and it was placed just outside the citadel. They had caught the dragon with Balinor's involuntary help, and hoisted it down under the castle, under the dungeons. Large unbreakable chains had been attached in multiple places within the cavern under the castle, and Uther used the Great Dragon as propaganda towards the rest of the magic war—as a warning of a war that would surely be the end of magic. Uther slowly began killing off other dragons and their lords. As I have told you before, I am the one who smuggled Balinor out of the dungeons and out of Camelot—I had not known what had happened to him after that._ Arthur. _You must remember—the Great Dragon has been chained up during the Purge and twenty years afterwards, he, in his high point of rage, will be difficult to slay. I beg you to be careful, sire."_

Arthur sighed; it was difficult to think of the dragon that had fed off of Camelot's fear and destruction as just a cryptic lizard. He couldn't take the dragon lightly.

Leon laughed happily along with the Essetirian knight, and Arthur swore he heard a light tinkling of a pleasant sounding laugh from the young druid man, who rarely made vocal noise until now, "This is true, I've caught wind of his riddles. I'd imagine how irritating they must be to decipher them in a regular conversation..." Murmured a deeper voice than Arthur had expected. _Really_ , wasn't Mordred supposed to be younger than he, himself? Leon's hazel eyes flickered over to the blonde prince's dumb founded face, "I forget—this _is_ your first time visiting Essetir, isn't it? You always stay home when our King or our Queen and the Lady Morgana visits, hunting or questing…or busy with the council work the King will let you touch," Arthur gave a scowl that Leon didn't catch, as the curly mop of blonde hair turned to look at Lancelot, not letting Arthur answer, "You weren't Captain of the Guard last time I visited, you were just a squire after you left Camelot, weren't you? I'm curious. How have you gone from peasant to nobleman?"

Lancelot gave a nervous chuckle, "Ah, yes. About that, um—Milord Emrys and I had made fast friends," Leon looked surprised at this. "I haven't yet spoken to your Prince yet as there was no cause; and that I figured every noble your age was like—"

" _Please_ do tell us what you thought every noble was like when they were about my age, Sir Leon." Arthur gave his own Captain of the Guard a pointed look, tone hard and irritated.

"—as I said, but he would befriend a peasant? A squire is naught but a step up from a common castle servant." Leon finished, "Ah, not to be rude," Leon reassured the Prince's manservant, George. George nodded, understanding—at least he was the _best_ servant, if not a little boring. The seemingly perfect servant adjusted his tunic, and smoothed out the horses' reigns in his hands. The servant was still walking as diligently as ever besides Mordred and his horse, as the druid boy wasn't accustomed to riding the beast. Arthur was mildly impressed with the servant—he, himself, would loath to be on the ground and active in this heat. Glancing at Mordred, Arthur wondered why the boy was still wearing his cloak. The blonde shifted on his horse, moving his attire that had gotten stuck to the sweat on his back.

Mordred, as if sensing the princes' musings, pulled back the hood of his teal cloak. Arthur couldn't help but notice Mordred's suddenly defined jaw line and his hair was full of curls that hadn't been there before, but they suited him. Arthur just stared harder, at the boy, taking in the young man's features and comparing them to what he had remembered. Mordred quickly noticed Arthur's stare and looked up to meet his eyes. Arthur almost scowled—where had the soft face of the younger Mordred gone? Arthur swore he did not look _at all_ mature when he had smuggled him out of the dungeons.

Mordred raised a curious eyebrow at the scowl he was receiving, but choose to say nothing on it. The druid boy looked back to Lancelot who was still speaking, trying to ignore Arthur's oddly baffled stare.

"Milord saw my skills, and I had told him my dream to be a knight," Lancelot said, face brightening as he talked about his prince. "I had also told him I had been rejected as a knight from Camelot, as I was not of noble blood, as well as warning him with the news of the griffin I had been tracking, passing through Camelot and into the boundaries of Essetir. My prince trusted that my words were true, and he tackled the problem head on by talking to his father about the unfairness of perfectly able fighters and sorcerers that are not able to defend the kingdom they loved simply because they lack the blood status to do so," Lancelot paused, reminiscing in his memories.

Arthur raised his eyebrows in question, _He had gone to Camelot? I didn't even remember—well, I don't suppose I would remember what hadn't happened here, I don't remember anything happening in this realm. And the griffin, I wouldn't have heard of the threat at all if I hadn't met Lancelot, and even more so if the griffin had simply passed over Camelot. Had Leon known of this?_ Arthur shot a sidelong glance at Leon, wondering if the head of the Camelotian knights took on more responsibilities than he himself took before he was Prince Regent. People _would_ report to him first, as it would be a bother to the King or Prince to report to them something without any interest. _Like…a peasant wanting to become a knight. Or a mythical creature that may or may not be real,_ Arthur thought, looking towards the beaming face of Lancelot.

"I do remember you, _Sir_ Lancelot," Leon put emphasis on his title with a smile. "You said you had wanted to become a knight of Camelot, and that you were tracking a creature with the head of an eagle and a body of a lion—thought you were crazy. It took me a while after you left to remember our court sorcerer and physician had told me about a creature with the exact description of what you had told me a few days before hand—a griffin. I didn't think they were real. And our court sorcerer _also_ told me that a rampant griffin _cannot_ be slain without the use of magic; then, what of the griffin, Sir Knight?"

Arthur jumped, startled by the logistics of killing such a beast, _Magic? How was the beast killed before? Lancelot used a_ lance, _there was no magic present. Had Gaius preformed a spell before Lancelot had gotten to the Griffin? Was Lancelot a sorcerer, himself?_ Impossible! _How many other creatures were falsely defeated? The Afnac, then, how was that defeated?_ Arthur shook his head, fire from the torch, and a _blade._ He himself had made sure of that, Morgana and Merlin had just stood to the side, it was impossible for magic to have been used at all.

But… now that the blonde prince was thinking about it, there was an unexplainable burst of wind out of nowhere—the trio hadn't been near the entrance of the cave at all. _Morgana?_ Arthur frowned, Morgana had betrayed Uther by siding with Morgause, but it was unexplainable that Morgana _herself_ had magic, and even if she _had_ had magic, wasn't she against the throne from the beginning? What of Merlin? Had his very own manservant been hiding the fact that he was learning and practicing magic in Camelot the whole time he had been with Arthur? _That's too ridiculous of a thought._ Arthur dismissed said thought immediately, and in doing so missed the answer of the question he had asked himself.

Lancelot's soft but sure accent continued speaking, "We have not slain the griffin as of yet, but we do have the means by blade and magic to do so. There have been no reports of the griffin close to the Camelot boundaries, I assure you—you have nothing to worry about. And even if the griffin were to threaten your borders, your kingdom is safe, our alliance will make sure of that," Lancelot sent a reassuring smile to Leon, pulling the horse's reins sharply in Leon's direction, directing the horse to fall in step beside Leon's trusty steed, leaving Arthur more excluded, more behind the two knights. Was his attitude so _bad_ before that Leon and Lancelot excluded him from their conversation so naturally?

The Prince of Camelot then continued to eavesdrop—no, that was too _un-princely_ ; he was simply continuing to listen to a far-too-loud conversation—on the two knights ahead of him, a clash of red and royal blue as their cloaks billowed in the wind as they spoke to one another. The two were the very definition of what every knight should be, Arthur supposed—loyal and honourable.

Arthur looked forwards; _I_ _guess I_ would _be spoiled;_ _I do have everything I had wanted: a family, my mum and father along with a sisterly Morgana, not to mention I'm a_ prince _. Yet I have no one to ground me, without Merlin and…_ Arthur sighed; there must have been _someone_ else who had left an impression on thought of Gwaine, who had taught him nobility in those who aren't noble—yet still managed to get into trouble. ... _there is_ _no one to ground me without my_ manservant _and without the_ rogue tavern-goer _, Gwaine, to keep me in my place. How silly—_ absurd _—must that sound to a common ear?_ The prince briefly wondered how Gwaine was, and if he would meet the ruffian soon. He had a lot of strength and guts, Arthur had no reason to worry about the man's well-being.

The blonde prince's thoughts wandered back to that of the griffin—that's what had brought Lancelot to meet him in the first place, but if the griffin had passed over Camelot without the Prince and the honourable Lancelot crossing paths, Lancelot _would_ have been rejected as a knight. Arthur wouldn't have met him, as Merlin wouldn't have insisted he should meet the boy, and— _Merlin._ Again, where _was_ Merlin? Arthur frowned, "What of Ealdor?" Arthur remembered Ealdor as his manservant's hometown, and even if he was in a different realm, the prince hoped it wouldn't be too different.

"We already passed through it, Milord," Leon responded, glancing over his shoulder, "The Druid Encampment where we were stationed was inside the Ealdor region—'tis a big town." Lancelot smiled. Arthur noticed a soft smile on the lips of young Mordred as Leon was talking about his home town.

"But, of course, it is where the royal wedding took place—between our current King and Queen of course," the black haired knight continued, casually spewing facts to the Camelotian knights, all the while looking over his shoulder at Arthur. "Milady the queen was a peasant, after all—a farmer's daughter. She was born and raised in Ealdor, by her older brother; you do know Gaius, don't you—your court sorcerer?"

"And physician," Leon stated, proudly, "He's very adamant that he share the same title with Alice, the two are the very definition of _love birds,"_ the sandy haired knight said with a teasing, and carefree tone. Lancelot looked to Mordred, "You and Gaius get on well, yeah? Gaius visits our queen often, and he stays in the druid encampment for weeks at a time gathering druidic herbs and what not," Mordred smiled at the mention of the old Court Physician, and leaned to the side, a hand shuffling through the brown wool bag resting at the side of the horse's saddle and pulled out a simple leather bound book, showing it off to the other four. "Oh, isn't that one of Gaius' old spell books?" Lancelot asked the younger man whose head bobbed vigorously in answer.

Arthur asked another question, quickly changing the subject into something non-magical as George the Perfect Servant was putting the book of magic bag in Mordred's saddle bag with the careful watch of the druid's icy blue eyes, "Then—wouldn't Gaius be something of a duke, being the brother of a queen?" Arthur hid his express surprise at the fact that the Essetirian king had courted a _peasant_ farmer's daughter. Leon raised an eyebrow at Arthur's query, and change in attitude over the whole journey, really. _He actually seems interested. How odd._ Leon thought, pulling back on his horse's reins, meaning to slow the steed and fall into step besides Arthur's, to engage the prince more in the conversation.

"As I'm sure you know, Gaius and King Uther are close friends," Leon nodded to Arthur, "Uther was a lot like you when he was your age, but Gaius put him in his place, 'e did—he was already an advisor to your grandfather, and when Uther was of age to start training and learning the ropes of the kingdom, and that was when Gaius and Uther had the chance to become fast friends. And fast friends they were. Gaius was something of…your father's older brother." Leon smiled, "I was only into my adolescent years when I met Uther personally—and he had been crowned a young king a short few years later. As for Gaius," Leon gave a faint laugh, "He had grey hairs when I first started maturing—barely made it past fifty with a head of youthful hair, the poor chap," Leon continued to chuckle, and Arthur gave a faint smile.

What he really wanted to know was how his father and mother had met, their marriage, everything about his _mother_ —not that the relationship between Uther and Gaius when they were younger wasn't nice for him to hear about, not that he didn't find neighbouring kingdom's odd choices in rulers or opinions of peasants being equal to nobility.

"And to more directly answer your question earlier, no, Gaius is not a duke. He wished to continue being Camelot's physician and advisor—being loyal to the King as he is," Leon smiled at the youthful blonde. "It's hard to find someone that loyal to the crown."

Arthur winced; _Merlin_ was loyal to him—though as the _man,_ not just the crown, even if he was just a servant and not a knight. His manservant's nobleness and loyalty was enough to match, if not surpass, his other knight's to boot. Yet so was Leon in terms of loyalty, but Leon would always have blindly followed Uther's words through anything, as Uther was the _King._

"Look," Mordred said in his quiet but deep voice. Arthur, who was so engrossed in the conversation before and didn't notice when the horses had stopped, looked to where Mordred was pointing: a beautiful view of a castle from where the greens of the forest opened up. Arthur could see the stones of white from the castle in the distance and the lower town, the view was closer to where they stood, were tents of vendors painted in many different colours just as the druid camp had been. At a closer look, Arthur noticed the tallest tower of the castle in the far distance had some manner of beast wrapped around it—an odd addition to the castle's architecture, in Arthur's opinion. The beast looked the epitome of majesty against the multi-coloured sky, the sun setting behind the bright white castle. Mordred spoke again, "That's the Great Dragon, isn't it?" the young man looked towards his a older companion, who agreed,

"That he is," Lancelot said, pleasantly, "Once the town's people were used to his size—as most dragons are smaller than he—Kilgharrah claimed that as his usual perch. You could say Essetir is known for having a Dragon Lord as King." Lancelot nodded, and looked to Arthur, who was staring at the beast with certain wariness. Knowing he wasn't hallucinating, Arthur saw what appeared to be a bronze or copper coloured dragon— _large, very large—_ curled around the tallest tower, tail twinning around the tower before trailing down to touch the ground beneath him.

"But don't worry about him, he doesn't bite," Lancelot assured Arthur. Arthur chuckled nervously, nonplussed.

"That hard," George added on in a murmur, to which Mordred laughed quietly at.

"I'm sorry?" Leon asked.

"I had said, milord, that if the dragon would bite someone, it wouldn't be hard." George started; a bit put off of what he should say next to explain why he had spoken up.

"A-a brass coloured dragon can't be all that bad, yeah?" The servant paused to lick his lips nervously, "Because if he did bite, it would be a pain in the…br-…-ass…" George had started, voice strong, but it had gotten quieter under Arthur's unamused stare. The man servant fidgeted for a good while before going still, his eyes staring down at Arthur's feet in a respectful manner.

"Count on George to be soft on a dragon because the colouring of his scales holds a likeness to brass." Leon chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised if George thought the Stymphalides was a friendly creature instead of a man eater because the beast has the claws and a beak of brass." Lancelot added. George, having gone pale under Arthur's gaze, stood still, unsure eyes flickering between the Camelotian knight and prince. Leon punched the servant's arm lightly, "Lighten up, mate, this isn't an execution."

"You're not to be reprobated for a few harmless jokes," Lancelot smiled winsomely whilst Leon nodded in agreement.

"Would you like to hear another, then?" George asked with the tone of a professional servant, a hopeful twinkle in his eye.

Leon raised his sandy coloured eyebrows and looked to Lancelot, who shrugged and gave another easy smile, "Surprise us."

"What do you call a type of metal that can measure time?" George asked, looking expectant in the most intelligent way.

"I don't know of such a thing," Leon paused in his answer, thoughtful. Lancelot nudged Leon and asked, "What?"

"An hour-brass." George said proudly.

Arthur felt his mouth become dry because of the horrible joke, so he smacked his lips together, _some things never do change..._ To his left, he heard Mordred coughing loudly, trying either to hold back a remark—which would be odd, as Arthur had barely heard more than a word out of the boy—or laughter. Arthur wasn't sure which would make more sense, as George's brass jokes are never funny. Arthur looked to Leon who had an amused smile on his face that matched the one Lancelot wore. George almost broke his professional stride—looking like he wanted to laugh himself. The manservant opened his mouth to speak before Arthur said, "That's quite enough verbal harassment for toda—" The prince's words stopped as he noticed George giggling. Arthur let his eyebrows rise dramatically. Arthur cursed his inner Gwaine calling himself a drama queen.

"You wouldn't want me to...sur _brass_ you, would you? You see, you said ha _rass_ but you could have easily said ' _h-b_ rass' to keep in the theme of things—you _do_ see, don't you?—and it made me laugh." George giggled to himself, "Oh—that was brass of me."

Arthur was pretty sure the coughing to his left had turned into laughter, but the blonde was, in no way, amused. George must have taken the prince's blank stare as the blonde not having got the joke.

"Do you get it? I meant to say " _crass_ ", which means—"

Arthur cut the manservant off, "Yes, yes, I know what it means. I was staring because it made me feel a bit ill..." The manservant fell silent once more. Arthur let out a suffering sigh before politely asking, "Don't you have any jokes that _don't_ involve brass?" The question came out less polite and more irritating sounding; _it's the thought that counts._ Arthur told himself.

"I... I don't, sire." George frowned. "What other jokes _would_ there be—do _you_ happen to know of any?" He asked, intrigued. The quiet laughing to his left stopped and Arthur could feel the hair on his nape prickle from the druid's gaze.

"Well, there's..." Arthur trailed off as he noticed Lancelot and Leon's expectant gazes on him, as well as George's and presumably Mordred's. The prince's eyes widened as he realised the implications of his words, _they're expecting me to tell a joke._ He coughed uncomfortably, "Leon, I'm sure there are other jokes, you agree with me?"

Leon looked more amused that Arthur would like. Arthur cleared his throat and looked to George, who looked crest fallen. Lancelot chuckled and nudged Arthur's shoulder, "I was sure you'd have a great joke cooked up for us, I was wondering what kind of joke would be grandiose for the Prince of Camelot, but it seems like there isn't anything better than the sound of brass jokes." George perked up at the indirect complement, seemingly forgetting about the disappointment he had held onto just a few seconds earlier.

Arthur coughed into his fist, trying to hold his tongue at Lancelot, "You're too kind," slipped out of the blonde's mouth. George, not seeming to catch on to the insult, nodded in agreement.

"Let's continue on, shall we?" Lancelot urged his horse forwards, "We'll rent rooms at the tavern in the lower town for the night."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could we possibly meet at the tavern, hmmmm? *wink wink* *nudge nudge*


	6. What In Tarnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author tries to remember the original plot to the story.   
> "I don't have to write this down, I'll remember it!"  
> Four years later...  
> "Ha ha whoops."
> 
> Anyway! This is the first time I've written a full thing since early 2014. Ayyy.
> 
> As always, no beta. So please point out where I've made mistakes!

-x-

Arthur woke to find himself in a small room with wooden walls. On the floor. Upside down. In a pile of random men—oh, was that Leon? A pile of random men plus Leon. With a pounding headache. _How lovely,_ were Arthur's first thoughts of the day, however sarcastic.

The blonde prince tried to sit up, but his right arm was pinned under a snoring bearded man's torso. Frowning, Arthur tugged at that arm a few more times. The shirtless bearded man on his arm made a groaning sound of discontent and rolled around away from Arthur, who quickly pulled his arm back. Arthur rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with both hands and sat up, careful not to disrupt Leon, who had apparently used Arthur's thigh as a pillow.

Taking in his surroundings, Arthur squinted at the light that filtered through an odd number of square windows evenly offset from each other. Arthur turned to look at the bearded man to his right once more. The man had rolled onto his back, mouth wide open and snoring louder than he had been before. He looked suspiciously like—

" _Gwaine_?" Arthur said incredulously.

"You're disrupting my beauty sleep, Princess, knock it off." Gwaine grumbled, throwing an arm over his eyes. Arthur's mouth floundered a bit, trying to think of a comeback, but he blurted out an undignified, " _Who are you calling Princess_?" His voice might or might not have cracked at the end.

"Can it, Goldie Locks."

Arthur glared at him, knowing full well that the bearded drunkard couldn't see him.

"Ahh, I have a pounding head ache…" Gwaine grumbled under his breath.

"Rise and shine!"

Merlin sang—oh, wait, that wasn't Merlin. Arthur frowned, "Rise and shine?"

Lancelot paused, "Up and at 'em?" He amended, questioning, closing the wooden door behind him with his foot.

" _Great_ , there goes any last hope of shut eye I'll be getting." Gwaine sat up, mouth set in a large yawn.

"What's Gwaine doing in here? More importantly, what am I doing here?" Arthur asked tiredly, massaging his aching scalp with the tips of his fingers.

"Gwaine practically lives in this tavern." Lancelot said airily, waving his hand, "Here, tonic."

Arthur eyed the small cup Lancelot handed him and Gwaine, "This looks like Gaius' tonic." He commented.

Leon, having been awakened by Arthur and Gwaine's bickering, lifted himself off of Arthur's legs, proped himself up on one elbow, took another shot glass of tonic that was offered to him by Lancelot and promptly drank it all.

"Oh, it is! It's his recipe, anyway. Mordred made it." Lancelot said, and stretched his arms above his head.

"Mordred handled his mead a lot better than Golden boy here did, I'll have to give it to him." Gwaine said.

"I dare say Mordred handled himself better than you did." Lancelot gave a pointed stare.

"Really, what will Emrys say when he finds out you started another bar fight?"

"My pride as a dart game fanatic was at stake. And I wager he'd just laugh with me." Gwaine smirked confidently. Lancelot opened his mouth to comment, but Arthur interrupted,

"There was a bar fight? Why don't I remember?"

"Oh…That might be because…ah…" Gwaine trailed off, scratching next to one of his sideburns.

There was the sound of the wooden door opening once more, "You got hit over the head with a tavern stool." Mordred informed him, coming in with a tray of more tonic and a metal pitcher full of water. Gwaine looked sheepish.

"It had absolutely nothing to do with me, mind you."

"Oh yes. You look _completely_ innocent." Arthur mumbled, running a hand over his face tiredly.

"He sees through your act already, Gwaine, better start running." Lancelot teased.

"Okay, your head might have been in the way of the bar stool when I was throwing it at that self-proclaimed dart champion." Gwaine explained, a shit-eating smile on his face.

Arthur looked at him blankly and did not dignify this with a reply. He quickly knocked back the hangover tonic in his hands and his face twisted in disgust.

"That good, huh?" Leon asked with a chuckle and handed his empty glass back to Lancelot, who took it, and made grabby hands at the pitcher Mordred had come in with.

Lancelot flourished his hands to either side, "So how did you like the Gwaine experience, your highness?"

"My head hurts and I remember next to nothing about last night and I can't tell if it's from the hang over or the blunt force trauma, my stomach is in knots-that's definitely from the hangover. Apparently it's not too memorable."

"Excuse me; I'll have you know I'm very memorable!" Gwaine defended, flipping his hair over one shoulder.

"Yeah no, the experience is usually like that." Lancelot said mock-gravely while Gwiane sputtered indigently.

"Who... are all of these men?" Arthur interrupted between the responsible and irresponsible knights.

"There's a few woman over here." Gwaine pointed out helpfully and gestured to a corner.

Arthur squinted at a couple androgynous helmeted figures slumped over each other in the corner decked out in knight's armour similar, but not the same, to the armour Lancelot and Gwaine wore. "Ah. I didn't realise. I suppose I amend my statement to who are these...people?"

"Tho _oooo_ se lovely ladies snoring in the corner over there are the castle guards! Very menacing. No one can flirt their way through whatever they're guarding, sadly." Gwaine pouted, "In fact the male guards are much more lenient. Probably why there's more female guardsman than male, come to think of it..."

"Aren't you a knight? Shouldn't you be allowed where you wish?" Arthur asked, pushing back his confusion of lady guards and knights to deal with at a later date.

"You would think. Sometimes the King likes to keep me out of the courtyard because-"

"Because he distracts the maid servants and is a general nuisance when you're trying to get anything done around here." A new voiced popped up.

Arthur turned to look at the speaker. The young man grinned cheekily and waved at him. He had sandy blonde hair reminiscent of a bowl cut and was wearing a nicer variation of peasant clothes.

"Hiyya, I'm William. Em's manservant. But that's just a front. Really I'm his childhood best friend. I used to follow him around as he completed his princely duties for free but the council complained about a dirty farmer's boy tailing him. Now I'm paid to follow him around and bug him and be a friend in general but it looks," Will raised his hands and made air quotes, "professional because I wear this garb now." He plucked at the collar of his shirt.

"Fashion." He said dramatically. He then perked up, "Oh! 'Dred, ya mind handing me a tonic? My brain is soup. Painful soup."

The quiet druid boy walked over to the chatty servant and complied with his request.

"You know each other?" Arthur asked. "From the way Mordred's mother was acting it sounded like he hadn't strayed far from the encampment before."

"Oh, he hasn't!" William piped up when Mordred's face flushed. "Em and I go down to the encampment quite often. He and Mordred hit it off very well! And Mordred had wanted to get out of the encampment and live independently for a while now, add in Em needing someone to talk to and tutor in in magic and poof. There you have it." William patted Mordred's arm and leaned over him to stage whisper, "Most magic users are too intimidated or embarrassed to practice magic with Emrys given the all-powerful-ness and yada yada."

"Aren't you a sorcerer?" Arthur asked, remembering the very same boy's dying words to him before in the small town of Ealdor.

William snorted loudly. "Me? A-a- _HA_ " his own laughter cut him off. Mordred looked amused, himself. "Boy howdy I-whew. Uh. No. I'm Horrible. Capital H. I have diddly squat in the magical capabilities department. Em keeps me around because of my dashing good looks and my amazing sense of humour."

Mordred snorted here but by the time Will's head snapped around to glare at him, the druid was looking elsewhere and whistling innocently.

Arthur started at them, eyebrows furrowed. He shook his head. More and more about certain events that happened around Merlin have been starting to make less and less sense to him since he got here.

"What-what happened last night, anyway?" Arthur finally gave into the temptation to ask.

"Long story short, we all stumbled into the tavern for rooms, got coerced by Gwaine-who was already here-to drink with him. He started a bar fight-"

"I honestly think he can't go more than a fortnight without starting one, myself." Will interjected.

"...true. Then you got hit over the head with a chair after-stupidly-engaging in a mead drinking contest with Gwaine and the guards over there," Lancelot continued waving his hands around to indicate who he was talking to and about, "and then you got knocked unconscious by a bar stool." Here Arthur shot a glare towards the roguish knight who smiled sweetly, "This one over here," a flourish towards Mordred who grinned sheepishly, "We found is killer at poker, so he made good coin-"

"I had to beat someone up for suggesting that he cheated." Gwaine interjected, clapping the druid on the shoulder. William mouthed and made air quotes around the words "had to" from behind Gwaine's back.

"Defending everyone's honour, that's me. Defender of honour. Gwaine. The Knight. The Knight Ser Gwaine."

"Oh, hush now. Anyway, Leon and some of our knights dragged you into the room we bought and we all just kinda passed out for the night." Lancelot finished.

William laughed, "We had a wang dang doodle of a time, I gotta tell you."

"Let's play spot the farmer's boy." Gwaine said, teasingly.

"What was that?"

"Nothin'."

-x-

A couple of hours later they found themselves all dressed properly, fed, washed, and acquainted with each other and it was only noon.

"See ya later!" Gwaine chirped to the bar keep who responded by waving her dish towel at him with a "Auugh get outta here already! Don't let me see your mug again today, pretty boy!"

Lancelot, William, and Leon had started ahead of Arthur and Gwaine (who had offered out of the _goodness_ in his own heart to guide Arthur to the court yard) to the castle, and the guards and other knights and their squires dispersed quickly after breakfast.

Arthur turned back to face the tavern to ask Gwaine something, but found him not to be there. Arthur irritably tapped his fingers to the hilt of his peace wrapped sword. Letting out a sigh, he turned about face and started walking through the lower town. He quickly forgot his irritation at Gwaine because of the beautiful and intricacy of the shopping stalls around him. Many of the small stalls had little magic tricks and gimmicks to catch the eye and there was art, finery, fabrics, food, and much of what he would find in the lower town back in Camelot, but magic made it fundamentally different.

The lower town held a lot of the warmth and magic that the encampment had, and Arthur found himself smiling despite his unease of the blatant show of sorcery. A familiar older woman smiled at him and held out her palm. In it, a blank piece of paper sat in all its blank glory. Arthur stepped towards her, head tilted in question. He took a step back with a gasp as her hand was enshrouded by flame and smoke. She chuckled and fixed her grip on the still intact card until it was held in between her pointer and middle finger, outstretched towards him.

"It's...not going to catch on fire again, is it?" Arthur asked, cautiously taking the card from her and very glad he was wearing his leather riding gloves just in case it did.

"No, dear boy," The older woman replied, amused.

Arthur turned over the card a couple of times, in amazement: where the card had been blank before, it was now adorned with tidy cursive script.

" _Thomas James Collins-magical carpenter_ " it read on the front.

" _Mary Collins-charms specialist_ " it read on the back.

"Ah. Thank you." Arthur flipped open the flap on a leather bag that was attached to his belt and tucked the card into it. He gave the woman a wobbly smile and walked forward quickly, now knowing why he found her familiar. _She was the mother of that boy that was put to death. And she was the one who tried to kill me and was crushed with a chandelier after Merlin pulled me out of the way._ Arthur's eyebrows furrowed. _How awkward._

Not looking where he was going, Arthur bumped into a tall man in the crowd.

"Ah, sorry I wasn't watching where I was..." Arthur looked up at the man he had bumped into, "Merlin?" He asked incredulously.

His manservant was dressed in casual commoner clothing-as he normally was, Arthur's brain supplied-additionally, he had a blue hanker chief covered in what looked to be oil adorning his neck instead of a red one, and his pants were rolled up to his knees and covered in dirt and more oil.

Merlin's eyebrows shot up as his blue eyes met Arthur's, highlighting the black grease paint on his high cheek bones. Not a few seconds after, the dark haired man schooled his features into more of an amused smile, "I'm afraid I don't have the honour of knowing your name, although you seem _quite_ familiar with mine."

Arthur took him in some more, noticing his hands were covered in oil and there were streaks and finger prints on his shirt and his pants, like he wiped his hands off a few times. Instead of answering Merlin's indirect question, the blond shot a few of his own, teasingly, "What were you doing? Wrestling a can of grease paint?"

The lanky boy leaned back, resting his back on a wooden pole. Arthur followed the line of the pole upwards until it ended in the ceiling support for the porch of the shop he had exited from. " _Seamstress, tailoring to your yarn's desire_ ," a cursive script read along the store front.

"Helping fix some of the machines in here. Magic only does so much, and sometimes it's good to get more hands on and use a little elbow grease." Merlin's sleeves were rolled up to his forearms and his regular tan coat was slung over his shoulder, the collar lazily hooked over his pointer and middle fingers.

 _He actually has grease on his elbows_ , Arthur thought, amused.

"...ong way from Camelot."

Arthur snapped back to attention, "Excuse me?"

Merlin looked slightly exasperated. He gestured to the crest on Arthur's chest, "I said, it's a long way from Camelot, and before I asked if you were lost and I explained could point you to the court yard if needed." Merlin paused in his retelling to give Arthur an inquisitive stare, "Got quite the attention span there, I _must_ say."

Here Arthur blinked at him. Had he really zoned out that much?

"I was just thinking-"

"Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, your highness." Merlin remarked dryly.

Arthur huffed out, disbelieving. It's official, he thought, Merlin's attitude was a universal constant.

"Speaking of, I had an escort but they seem to have left..." Arthur squinted through the crowd, finally just barely making Gwaine's figure in between two or three well-dressed ladies, skirts puffed out around themselves all giggling over what the long haired rogue had to say.

"Oh, Gwaine, huh?" Merlin asked, after following Arthur's gaze, "Ye _ee_ ah—that's a lost cause. He's probably forgotten all about you, you poor thing." Merlin gave a wry smile at Arthur's befuddled expression.

Arthur sputtered a bit. Then he asked weakly, "Is this a part of the Gwaine experience?"

Merlin gave him a wide eyed look before barking out a loud laugh. "Oh goodness, got it right on the nose, ahh..." He brought up an oiled hand and rubbed his index finger under his nose, unknowingly smearing oil there.

Arthur preened over the praise, while simultaneously being amused at the oil moustache Merlin now sported. Merlin's laughter trailed off and he cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something in the distance.

"Hm, I'm going to be a bit late it seems..." Merlin frowned, staring ahead. His blue eyes snapped to Arthur, "But I'll see you again at the ceremony. If you follow this road down here and turn left at the apothecary, the path to the court yard becomes more or less obvious."

"You're going to be serving at the..." Arthur made a vague hand gesture, searching for his next words. The blond's eyes flickered up and over to the castle towers. Golden eyes seemed to bore into him.

"Something like that." Merlin gave him a mischievous smirk that Arthur didn't see, "Best be going, yeah?"

The copper scaled dragon who had been sitting wrapped around one of the castle's towers looked away from Arthur then, and stretched his large wings and made to take off into the sky. His wings beat once, twice, the ground around him rumbling in faint vibrations that Arthur could feel from where he stood in the crowded market stalls, before he disappeared in the clouds.

Brows furrowed, Arthur looked around him. A few others had watched curiously as the dragon took off but there was not a sense of panic like there would have been in Camelot. In fact, most of the commoners bustling around the shopping district paid the majestic beast no mind, as if his comings and goings were frequent and not something to speculate over.

Arthur looked back over to where Merlin was leaning against the wooden support beams only to find he wasn't there. The prince's eyebrows climbed into his hair line.

"Heeeeeeya Princess." Gwaine sautered over to him. He flourished three different embroidered handkerchiefs to Arthur, wiggling his eyebrows, "Eyy? Ey? Am I good, or am I good." The man asked, shoving the cloth into a leather pouch on his hip. He unhooked a flask from his belt and took a quick gulp, tilting his head back as he did so.

"Wanta sip?"

Arthur paled, remembering just how much he threw up this morning mid-hangover.

"I'll...have to pass."

Gwaine tossed his dark locks over one shoulder and succured the flash back into his belt.

"Your loss." He offered the crook of his elbow to Arthur with a wolfish grin, "Shall we get going, Princess?"

Arthur promptly punched him in the arm and started walking ahead to the directions Merlin had given him prior to his sudden disappearance. Gwaine's laughter followed him all the way past the turn by the apothecary's and down the road.

Gwaine, it seemed, was another universal constant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news I have a couple hundred words written out for the next chapter so it should be updated soonish. *thumbs up*
> 
> Thank y'all a bunch for the kudos.

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this back in 2013, I was heavily into the BBC Merlin fandom. I fell out for a little while. I have other ideas for new Merlin fics and what not but... almost zero motivation?
> 
> I'm also not all that into romance being like the be all end all of every fic. I'm more into the platonic relationships. Friendships are super important and they make me so happy. Also plot. 2012 me was very into "romance and nothing else! what is plot" so I'm trying to get my writing to a better place. I mean, I don't think it's obvious in this fic. But. You know.
> 
> (I'm trying not to cringe at the earlier chapters but I don't have the patience to go back and rewrite everything.)


End file.
